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HE QUIETED THE MARE, AND THEN RODE UR TO THE GIRL WHO STOOD AT THE GATE, 

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Cojyyrighled, 1890, by Street cfi Smith. 

Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second-Class Matter. 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’S. 


% 


BY 


JEAN KATE LUDLIJM, 

Author of “At a Girl’s Mercy,” etc,, etc. 



NEW YORK: 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 

31 Kose Street, 


0 

I ■' \ 

V 


TO 

A. A. L., 

The personification of loveliness and nobility of 
character, whom every one, knowing, loved. 


CONTENTS. 


aiAPTER. 

I— The Girl 

II — The Stranger 

III — Her Learning 

IV— The Mare 

V — Whose was the Deed? 

VI— A Neighborly Gift 

VII — Over the Mountain 

VIII — The Sti'ayed Cow 

IX — Idle Tongues 

X — The Search 

XI — At the Tavern. 

XII— And Life Went On 

XIII— Young Green Again 

XIV — A More Thorough Search 

XV — The Rescue 

XVI — Life’s Monotony 

XVII— The Nurse’s Story 

XVIII — The Nurse’s Story Continued 

XIX— Its Effect 

XX — Around the Tavern Fire 

XXI — While the Fire Leaped and the Storm Roared 

XXII — While the Embers Burned Low 

XXIII — Bacon and Eggs 

XXIV— Dr. Dunwiddie 

XXV — A Gentle Message 

XXVI— Dolores’ Reply 

XXVII — “Man Proposes; God Disposes.” 

XXVIII -Over-Fatigue 

XXIX — The Freaks of a Woman 

XXX— Incidents 

XXXI — Dolores and Dora 

XXXII — Time’s Developments 

XXXIII— A Sudden Message 

XXXIV — Even in Death! 

XXXV— But Life Went On! . 

XXXVI— “That Girl of Johnson’s,” 


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THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’S, 


CHAPTER I. 

THE GIRL. 

The day was dreary when she was born, not only because 
the rain was falling in a drizzling fashion and a mist hung 
over the hills, but because she was born. Every one who 
knew her said so ; she herself used all her voice to protest 
against it, and as she had a peculiarly penetrating voice 
from the first it was impressed upon her hearers with un- 
pleasant distinctness. 

Her mother, having a soft heart, felt all her tenderness 
awaking for her weak, crying daughter, and gathered her 
into her arms with a half pitying caress. But her mother 
did not live long, and some of her friends went so far as to 
say that it was well she did not, for she would have spoiled 
the girl. 

Her father — well, there was no danger of her father 
spoiling the girl with tenderness. He considered her birth 
one of the blows fate dealt him, and he said he had had 
many blows from fate. He said fate was against him ; 
people said he was shiftless ; they said also that there was 
hardly a doubt that the girl would be the same. None of 
the Johnsons amounted to much — at least that branch of 
the family. Lemuel Johnson, this man’s brother, was 


6 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON^ 8, 


rich, rumor said, and they did not blame him for having 
nothing to do with his shiftless brother. He lived in a 
fine house in New York ; was enterprising and shrewd ; 
how could any one blame him for dropping this ne’er-do- 
well brother ? 

His brother thought differently. Lemuel was rich ; fate 
had been good to him ; it was but right that he should 
help him ; it was an unheard of thing that he had never 
offered to help him, especially when this added burden 
was laid upon his already too heavily laden shoulders. Of 
what good to him was a girl? Girls were of little use. 
Had she been a boy — but she was not a boy, and she 
was motherless from the time she was three weeks old. 

With a pathetic appreciation of the fitness of things her 
mother named her Dolores. And from the time she was 
taken from the dying mother’s arms into the kindly if 
rather awkward arms of Betsy Glenn, her large brown 
eyes, shaded by long curling lashes, looked out upon the 
world with a strange gravity and a knowledge of what it 
meant to be brought into the world unwelcome and un 
loved. 

She seldom cried. She never cooed as other and happier 
babies do. She would lie for hours in her rude cradle and 
stare at nothing, the neighbors said, with those wonderful 
eyes of hers until the heart of her rough but kindly friend, 
Betsy Glenn, throbbed with an undefined pity for the 
strange child. And as she grew older silence grew upon 
her. All the happiness, all the brightness of life that come 
to most girls, seemed shut out from her by that hard fact 
of not being wanted. But she apparently cared little about 
it ; her thoughts seemed far away and dreamy. 

She said little and the neighbors seldom ran in to gossip 
with her as they did with each other, for there was no use ; 
she took no interest in them or their gossip ; no one could 
talk easily with her eyes upon them.. So, when she grew 
old enough and there was no further need of Betsy Glenn’s 
presence and care, she was able to attend to the household 


TEA T GIRL OF JOHNSON* 8, 7 

matters herself, they left her alone ; even the children of 
her own age dropped her as though she had been dead. 

She was an excellent cook, and kept the house well ; her 
friend and her mother’s friend had taught her that, and in 
these things her father had no fault to find. He seldom 
spoke to her ; if the food were well cooked he never found 
fault; he never praised it or her; he ate his meals in 
silence, and went out of the house. She saw him only at 
meal times; his evenings were spent at the tavern; hers 
were spent at home mending his clothing or doing what- 
ever was to be done. 

Sometimes she sat, not lighting the candle, with folded 
hands, staring into the fire or out on the moonlit mount- 
ains, with her large, far-seeing eyes, late into the night — 
for she always sat up till her father returned from the 
tavern, and the tavern hours were late — dreaming her 
thoughts and her dreams. 

What these thoughts and dreams were no one knew, no 
one cared to know ; she was peculiar, they said, and best 
left alone. As to how she felt having so few friends they 
gave no thought. She performed all the duties that came 
to her hand, that was all that was expected of her. 

And to every one in the village — out of it she knew no 
one — she was simply “that girl of Johnson’s.” 


8 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 


CHAPTER II. 

THE STRANGER. 

When Dolores was twenty her father awoke to the fact 
that she was no longer a child. That he had not noticed 
this before was surprising, she was so grave and stately in 
her simple dress going about her simpler duties, but it was 
owing to the fact that he never noticed her much. 

The knowledge of her age and comeliness came to him 
suddenly one day. 

Johnson was a blacksmith, and young Green, whose 
father was judge in the town across the mountain, was 
riding up from the valley when his mare cast a shoe, and 
he stopped at the shop to have it replaced. 

Green was a pleasant fellow ; he talked a good deal be- 
tween the blows of the hammer. Johnson was eager for 
news at any time, and Green was an interesting talker, on 
even the lightest themes. 

The day was warm and sultry, and after a few minutes 
young Green asked for water. Johnson sent him to the 
house for it, saying that Dolores would give it to him. 
They had a fine well ; people traveling across the mountain 
generally stopped at their well. 

“Who is Dolores?” young Green asked, lightly. There 
was no motive of curiosity in the question ; he asked it as 
a matter of courtesy simply, for the village people were 
fond of talking about themselves and their families, and 
were pleased if they were questioned regarding them. 

The reply was given in a tone of utter indifference : 

“DTores? DTores? Why, she’s jest D’lores !” 

Green returned in a few minutes. There was a strange 
expression on his face, and he did not enter the shop at 
once ; he stood in the door- way, watching the harnniep fall 
Oil the glowing iron, 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


9 


The smith’s face was grimy ; the perspiration stood out 
on it in great drops ; the sinews of his arms were like 
knotted cords ; he swung the hammer with ease and 
strength. 

Green watched him ; Green was town bred ; he had a 
college education, and his friends were to a certain extent 
like all other young fellows, fond of hunting and all athletic 
sports, but a strength like this man’s he had never before 
seen. Green was a man, and men admire strength. 

He looked at the blacksmith’s face. It was full of lines 
and black with the grime from the iron. The glow of the 
fire was upon it. 

Green’s eyes were keen and quick to note character. 
There was nothing striking in the man’s face ; if anything 
it was even duller than the majority of faces in the settle- 
ment. The mouth was sullen under the scant gray mus- 
tache ; the eyes were small, and showed a possible cruelty 
of nature — brute cruelty ; the forehead was low and nar- 
row. There was not an intellectual line in the face. 

A wrinkle of puzzled thought appeared between the 
young man’s brows. He turned and looked long and 
earnestly up the path that led to the tiny unpainted house 
set in its dreary garden a short distance up the mountain. 

Dolores was standing in the door- way, her arms hanging 
dovm in front of her, her fingers clasped listlessly together. 
The sunlight was on her dark head ; her brown eyes were 
looking straight before her, and there was a light in her^ 
face that fairly transformed it. Usually there was little 
light in her face. Her lips were parted as though she had 
been speaking of pleasant things. I 

The young fellow turned back into the shop. The black- 
smith’s hammer had ceased its clanking on the red-hot 
iron ; he was fitting a shoe to the slender hoof. He glanced 
up. 

“Ded ye get ther water?” he queried, in listless curiosity. 
“Wer D’lores thar?” 

“Yes.” 


10 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON^ 8. 


Young Green took off his hat, and ran his fingers through 
his fair hair. The wrinkle of perplexity appeared and 
deepened between his brows. 

“Johnson, is she your daughter?” 

The blacksmith let down the mare’s hoof and straight- 
ened up in surprise. No one had ever before asked about 
Dolores. There was something in the young man’s voice 
that roused his sluggish nature. With the back of his 
hand he wiped the drops from his grimy face. 

“She my darter ? Wal, I reckon. My cursed luck thet 
she warn’t a boy ; boys is o’ use.” 

A flash came into the clear blue eyes watching him ; a 
flush mounted the fair face showing even beneath the 
beard. 

“Cursed luck? Man, you should thank your lucky star 
that she is a woman — and such a woman ! Where did she 
get her learning ?” 

“Learnin’ ?” 

The man was bewildered ; he laughed scornfully. The 
mare was growing impatient, and he lifted her hoof once 
more to his knee. 

“She ain’t never had no learnin’ ’s far as I know. Thar 
ain’t no use in learnin’ — ’t least I ain’t never seen no use 
o’ it. Wimmen ’specially air better off ’thout it. Theys 
never has much sense best ways ye ken fix it. Ther only 
thing D’ lores knows how ter do is to keep her mouth shet. 
Better fer all wimmen if they did. Hyar’s yer mare 
reddy. Fine mare she. Mares is better’n wimmen gen’ly 
speakin ’ ; ye’d best keep to ’em. Let ther wimmen alone 
is ther way to keep outen mischief. A shillin’, sir ; thank 
’ee.” 

The mare wheeled out of the close shanty of a shop as 
though she were glad to get away. She was full of life 
and spirits, and a beautiful animal. When her master 
mounted she reared and plunged ; her tail swept the 
scanty grass at the door, her long silky mane swept his 
face ; her eyes were flashing, her nostrils dilated. 


THAT QIBL OF JOHNSOHS. 


11 


The girl in the door- way lost her listless attitude. She 
came down the steps and stood at the rickety gate, her 
eyes afire, her cheeks fiushed. She called to him, and her 
voice — peculiarly penetrating, but full of rare sweetness — 
sounded like a note of music on the sultry air. He smiled 
at her. With a tight rein and a calm word he quieted the 
mare, then he rode up to the girl. His voice was pleasant ; 
to her it sounded grave and almost sweet. 

“The mare is gentle as a kitten ; she would not harm me 
for the world. It is only one of her tricks to try to dis- 
mount me ; she knows she cannot do it. You are as fond 
of animals as of astronomy, are you not. Miss Johnson?” 

Her gaze had strayed down to the shop. Her father was 
standing in the door- way rubbing his hands on his leathern 
apron and watching them. The fiash died out of her eyes, 
the flush from her face ; the listlessness had returned. 

His gaze involuntarily followed hers. He received no 
reply from her, and expected none ; he understood with a 
rare instinct. 

When he had ridden away she stood a long time at the 
gate. The far away look was in her eyes as she watched 
the black mare and her rider until the haze from the 
mountain hid them from her view. 

Few such strangers came to the settlement. An occa- 
sional hunting party stopped there for a rest, or now and 
then some of the townspeople rode through on their way 
up or down the mountain, but they took not the least in- 
terest in the people there, and none in her. This one was 
pleasant to her ; she did not understand it ; she did not 
dream that he understood her better than she understood 
herself. She knew nothing of such natures as his. But 
his voice and face haunted her as did some other pleasant 
dreams. 

When her father came in to dinner he watched her as 
she prepared the table ; he watched her as she ate. His 
eyes were on her constantly ; she knew it, but gave no 


12 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSOT 8. 


sign. She poured his coffee with a steady hand ; her eyes 
looked over and beyond him. 

As he took up his hat to return to the shop he turned and 
asked, abruptly, but with little show of interest : 

“How old air ye, girl?” 

Her large eyes looked through and through him; her 
gaze was steady, his wavered ; her voice, too, was steady 
and slow : 

“I am twenty, father.” 

“Curse the girl !” he muttered, as he passed down the 
worn path to the shop with no haste in his slouching gait. 
“Curse all ther wimmen! Borned fools, every one of 
’em ! Jest my luck thet she warn’t a boy ; boys is o’ use I” 


. THAT GIBL OF JOHNSON* 8, 


13 


CHAPTER III. 

HER LEARNING. 

Dolores was sitting on the door-step one evening. Her 
father was at the tavern as usual, and as her household 
duties were finished she sat in the mellow moonlight that 
fiooded the mountain with radiance. She was no longer 
listless. Her lips were parted ; her eyes larger and darker 
than usual ; her face, raised to the starry heavens, was 
full of light. On her knees lay an old astronomy, and one 
slender finger marked the place of her reading. 

In the distance a faint blue haze marked the pines in a 
cloudy mystery. A night bird whirred past her ; a katydid 
chirped ; afar in the valley a cow bell tinkled ; in the pines 
on the bank beside her a pigeon cooed. 

As in a, dream she heard them ; she was lost in studying 
the heavens. Venus was hanging in the west above the 
mountain; the milky- way trailed across the sky like a 
vail of haze with its millions of tiny atoms. 

She was lost to herself and her surroundings ; she did 
not hear the heavy footsteps approaching along the narrow 
path ; she saw nothing until a rough hand pulled the book 
from under her fingers. A deep oath smote the air. She 
knew who it was without looking up, and the light died 
out of her face and eyes. She leaned back against the 
door, her hands falling naturally in a listless attitude in 
her lap. 

“Curse ye !” her father muttered, between his clenched 
teeth. “Curse ’em as invented books an’ learnin’ ! Thes 
is ther way ye waste yer time while I am away. Thes is 
why ye air so everlastin’ dumb as nobody ken a-nigh ye, 
an’ why ther ain’t more a-doin’ et ther shop. Ef ye’d talk 
to ther men an’ ’tract ’em they’d kem oft’ner’n theys do— ^ 
thar hosses’d cast mo’ shoes, an’ X’d mak^ mo’ money. 


14 


TEAT QIBL OF JOHNSON^ S, 


• )' 

Curse ye 1 Yer mother was fool ’nough, but ye’re worse. 
No wonder thar ain’t one but says ye air a fool, ’thout even 
ther sense o’ most.” 

She rose up slowly to her full height and confronted 
him. There was a dull flush on her cheeks and a flash in 
her eyes, and he shrank from her. Her soul was in her 
eyes and his shrank from it. 

“Father, say what you like of me ; you shall say nothing 
of my mother ; she is beyond your power now. ” 

He changed the subject. The book had slipped from his 
hand and fallen to the ground ; he kicked it contemptuous- 
ly. The flash deepened in her eyes, but she had had her 
say, and sat down. The moonlight was on her face and 
hair ; her shadow lay long and dark behind her. 

“Theys telled me et ther tav’n thet ye was up ter thes ; 
they says ye were too high an ’mighty fer a common 
smith’s darter ; thet ye thought yer dad beneath yer ; thet 
ye never talks to ’em fer fear theys kyant understan’ ye. 
Theys ’lowed thet Betsy Glenn teached ye to read an’ write 
when ye were little. She was a schoolma’am once ower 
in Scruptown, an’ thought consid’rable o’ ther learnin’, 
Schoolma’ams is all fools ” 

Her eyes were on him, and he stopped. Her mother had 
been a school-teacher ; she loved her books — some people 
said that she loved her books more than she did her hus- 
band, and that he was jealous of them and had forbidden 
her touching them. 

Lavina Ketcham made a gentle wife ; she gave up much 
for peace, and at first she had loved her husband ; after- 
ward she found out his brute nature. Her nature was fine, 
and she was true to him always, but love was out of the 
question then. He forbade her the use of her books, and in 
that only she would not obey him. For a nature like hers 
to die mentally or even to stagnate was impossible. She 
was above him as the stars she loved were above her, and 
she knew it, and he knew it also ; he hated her for it. 

She was a school-teacher, and as school-teachers did not 


TEAT QIBL OF JOHNSON'S, ' . 15 

thrive that side of the mountain he olfered her a home, and 
she accepted his offer, believing him noble because of this 
generous act, as women will believe of the men they love 
until they have been proved otherwise, when the sweet if 
rather blind faith in them can never return once being 
destroyed. 

But she did her best to make him happy, though for them 
both happiness was impossible. At first she tried to raise 
him to her level, but he never gave her any help in this, 
and she soon found it out of the question ; natures are 
different ; she found this out with a sadness that shadowed 
her life though she never repined at the life laid out before 
her. She had accepted it; she must abide the conse- 
quences. But she did not live long. 

Her daughter inherited her nature only in a far higher 
degree. Her husband knew it, and the neighbors knew it. 
Never, however, did the girl’s father know that her 
mother’s books were her constant companions ; that she 
lived in them and on them ; that nearly every word of 
theirs was known to her by heart. 

Betsy Glenn had been her mother’s schoolmate and 
friend. Betsy Glenn taught Dolores with all the power 
she was capable. She had long been dead, but the seed 
she sowed grew and grew ; some time it would ripen and 
bear fruit. 

Had her father known of all this he would have stopped 
it from the first. He did not know it, for he had never 
taken enough interest in her to know it. Had he asked her 
she would have told him, but he never asked. 

The jealousy he had always felt toward his wife for her 
love of books seethed and scorched in his heart as he stood 
facing her daughter and his. She possessed not one of his 
traits ; the mother’s nature had deepened tenfold in the 
daughter. 

That night his comrades at the tavern had told him of 
this ; they taunted him with it ; they laughed at the girl. 
They did not like ber—GQt one of them. Narrow natures 


16 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


dislike and distrust that which they cannot understand. 
Young Green also had aroused his fears. Green had an 
education ; he had asked where the girl obtained her edu- 
cation, therefore she must have an education. To-night 
he was assured of this. 

He kicked the book contemptuously, and muttered, 
under his breath, an oath against young Green. If ever 
he came there again it would be a sorry day for him. 

Dolores said nothing. 

A sudden frenzy seized him. He stooped and snatched 
the book from the ground. It was an old astronomy. In 
the advanced world of thought it was of little use ; wise 
men had proved many of the hypotheses erroneous. The 
girl did not know this. Perhaps in her dreams many 
things that the book left in mystery were made clear. 
But she did not know that these had been proved plain 
facts to the world — until the day young Green came. 

She had been reading the book, for she preferred it to 
any of her mother’s books, and when young Green saw it 
the day he was there he was much surprised. He did not 
know that the villagers were fond of books, and had sup- 
posed them as a rule unable to read, for the little battered 
school-house where Dolores’ mother taught in the old days 
had long gone to ruin, and no one outside of the settlement 
cared to take the matter in hand. He asked her many 
questions, and her replies, though slow and quiet, showed 
that she had not only read but thought on many things 
and in a manner that would do justice to wiser heads than 
hers, simple girl as she was, with no other educator than 
the silent mountains and the memory of her mother. 
Young Green was strangely interested in her, and prom- 
ised to take her a volume on the subject the next time he 
went that way. 

She thanked him, and it was the first time she had 
thanked any one since Betsy Glenn died. That was two 
weeks before, and he had not come again aa he said he 
would, but ghe watched fox' him, feeling that he 


THAT OIUL OF JOHNSON* S. 


17 


would keep his promise to her, feeling strangely glad when 
she thought of him. She had perfect faith in him. 

Her father’s face was lurid as he snatched the book from 
the ground. His small eyes, close set, were full of brute 
cruelty ; the veins of his forehead were swollen. Dolores 
had never before seen him in such a mood. Her eyes 
dilated as she watched him ; that he would do her harm 
she would not be surprised. 

The soft, sweet air of the night seemed to shrink from 
his curses ; she watched him, but she scarcely heard him. 

In his hands, used to wielding the heavy hammer, the 
book was a toy ; his fingers closed over it, and in an in- 
stant it lay in shreds at her feet. 

For a moment she did not comprehend what had been 
done ; she looked from the book to him, and back again. 
Her eyes were wide, as though she did not comprehend. 
Then she arose ; her face was white, and her eyes flashed. 
She looked at him, and he cowered before her. She was 
tall and stately; he had never before appreciated her 
dignity. Now he appreciated it to the full. The book was 
the dearest thing in the world to her; he could have 
wounded her in no other way. 

Mechanically he gathered up the scattered fragments and 
as she held out her hand for them he gave them to her 
without a word, without even glancing at her. For the 
time she was more than his daughter ; her eyes were on 
his face, and her spirit ruled his. Then they strayed away 
to the mountain top vailed in haze. The moonlight was 
mellow along the sides ; a faint breeze strayed down and 
moved the waves of her hair. 

The fire died out of her eyes ; her hands, mechanically 
holding the torn leaves of her book, fell listlessly at her 
side ; her shadow lay long and dark behind her. 

There was a sense of mystery about her which her father 
could not understand ; he shrank from it and from her, 
and passed away up the dark bank heavy with the shad- 


18 THAT OIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 

ows of the pines that swayed in the faint breeze, and again 
silence fell around her. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE MARE. 

“I have come again,” said young Green, laughing. 

He stood in the door- way of the shop, holding the black 
mare by the bridle. She was impatient, and pawed the 
ground ; she shook her glossy head, and endeavored to 
turn back toward the sunlight of the mountain. She did 
not like the close shop or the strong hands of the black- 
smith. 

Johnson had been sitting on a bench outside of the shop, 
smoking a clay pipe. As the young man spoke he arose 
and advanced toward the mare. 

“Another shoe, so soon?” he queried, shortly. Histone 
was not pleasant ; his face was surly, and he looked only 
at the mare. 

“Yes,” the young man said, lightly. “Her right shoe 
this time. Come, Bess ; come, my girl !” 

She tossed her head and reared ; she did not like the 
blacksmith. 

Green laughed ; he spoke to her gently and stroked her 
arched neck. 

“It puts her out of temper to go without shoes,” he said, 
pleasantly. 

J ohnson nodded. He laid down his pipe and extended 
his hand, smelling strong of the rank tobacco, as though to 
take the bridle. She reared and threw her head. Green 
quieted her, and she went in, lifting her hoofs daintily 
from the rough boards. 

There was a sudden, sullen glow on Johnson’s face as he 
took the bellows and blew the fire into a fierce blaze. He 
laid the iron on the fire and raised the hammer. 

Young Green began to talk. He spoke of the dry 


THAT OIRL OF JOHNSON^ S. 


19 


weather and the hard roads ; he told the news of the town 
and of the trial that was to come off of a notorious horse 
thief who had been caught attempting to steal Bess. The 
blacksmith listened in sullen silence between the blows of 
the hammer. He asked no questions and made no replies ; 
apparently he took no interest in the matter. 

By and by young Green left him and went up .to the 
house for a drink. The day was almost threateningly 
warm. The haze hung dense and blue over the mountain ; 
it shrouded the sunlight to a faint brazen hue; a low 
breeze sighed through the pines around the house. 

Johnson was not the only silent one that day. His 
daughter listened mutely to the young man’s conversation. 
If anything she was even more listless than usual, though 
a strange color tinged her cheeks as he talked. She spilled 
the water, too, when she handed him the glass. Her 
brown eyes were half hidden by their curling lashes, and 
he could get no slow, quiet glance from them straight into 
his own as he had the previous time. He left the promised 
book with her ; he had not forgotten it, he said, but had 
been unable to take it before. For a moment her face 
glowed with pleasure and the silken lashes lifted swiftly, 
but fell ere their eyes could meet. She thanked him in a 
few simple words in her low, sweet voice ; then her gaze 
wandered away to the hazy mountain top in the distance, 
and her face lost all its color as though some thought 
drove the light from it. 

He left in a few minutes, deeply disappointed in her and 
yet strangely interested and puzzled. Had he mistaken 
her? Was she incapable of the thought he believed she 
possessed ? Had she not, after all, the ambition to be more 
than an untaught village girl ? Did her thought end with 
the blue line of mountains and the hamlets scattered along 
their sides ? 

She was so apt with replies before ; her eyes were so 
large and luminous ; her face full of intellect ; her large 
but perfectly formed mouth was parted with a slow smile 


20 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON^ 8. 


that gave a half tender expression to the grave face and 
betrayed the depth that lay beyond. 

Was this silent girl with the listless air the same as the 
other? Was she but like the other villagers whose lives 
centered in the tavern and the gossip ? Since first he saw 
her she had followed him in thought ; not constantly ; he 
was a man and human ; he had his friends and his social 
life and his business, which left little time for romance or 
imagination; but sometimes, sitting alone at his window 
at night, smoking, the mellow moonlight falling in a glory 
around him, his gaze strayed to the blue mountain top and 
his thoughts went out to the girl standing in the low door- 
way as he had last seen her, the light in whose large eyes 
reflected the glory of the broad slope of sunlight; her 
sweet, penetrating voice calling to him with a quiver of 
fear in it for his safety. 

The picture was pleasant to him ; he was not given to 
dreams ; life was too practical to him for that, but he was 
a lover of human nature and woman’s subtle nature always 
held a power over him, courteous gentleman as he was. 
To him even the horse-thief was possessed of such char- 
acter — bad character mostly, but there were traits in him 
that, under certain circumstances, would have resulted in 
much good. He took men as he found them, and was 
pleasant to all. Even the horse-thief liked him to a certain 
extent though he knew well he had him in his power. 
There was not a trace of fear in his nature. He believed 
all men honest until proven otherwise, but he took care to 
lay no temptation in their way. 

Dolores disappointed him ; he thought her so much better 
than she had proved herself, and yet under it all there was 
a sting in the thought which he did not understand, student 
of character as he was. 

“She was positively stupid,” he said, regretfully. “Yet 
her face shows such possibilities.” 

He was walking slowly down the narrow path to the 
shop, his hands clasped behind him, his fair head bent 


, THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON^ 8, 


21 


slightly forward. Dolores was watching him, but he did 
not know it. He never guessed of the wistful brown eyes 
following him down the stubbly path. 

Bess whinnied shrilly when he came in sight. She was 
restless and snappish, but when he mounted and rode out 
of the shop she grew gentle again. As he rode away 
Johnson called after him that she must have gone some 
distance without her shoe, for her foot was tender. Green 
replied that he thought not ; he was careful to look out for 
that. He thought little of the matter ; when he reached 
home he would have the hostler look after the mare and 
examine the hoof ; she was too valuable and too intelligent 
an animal to needlessly harm. 

“I believe she has more sense than that girl of Johnson’s,” 
he said, as he rode up the mountain, but the girl’s face 
would follow him in spite of this thought. 

Dolores watched him with her far seeing eyes as he rode 
up the mountain, then her gaze went down to the shop. 
Her father was standing in the door- way also watching the 
rider. He had forgotten his pipe ; his face in the hazy 
sunlight was full of sullen hatred, and he looked capable 
of committing almost any act. His muttered threat of the 
previous evening returned to her clearly and distinctly, 
but with a new meaning, a new horror, a touch of what 
might lay under the words she had deemed an idle vent to 
hatred. Her eyes widened with nameless fear. She looked 
up the mountain again to where the black mare was bear- 
ing her rider proudly along the yellow thread of road ; she 
was no longer listless ; her face was white, her lips quiver- 
ing with excitement. 


THAT QIRL OF JOENSON*& 


CHAPTER V. 

WHOSE WAS THE DEED? 

Dolores was waiting for something to happen. She had 
waited all her life for something to happen, but this was 
different. She was now waiting for something that she 
instinctively felt must change her life. A vague terror 
possessed her ; she could not have defined it had she tried ; 
she did not try. Young Green’s face seemed to haunt her. 
At night the memory of the black mare and her rider came 
between her thoughts of the heavens, and would not leave 
her. The frank blue eyes of the young man were always 
kindly in her thoughts ; there was always a smile on the 
pleasant face, but the memory held a terror for her which 
she could not understand. She watched her father con- 
tinually while he was in the house, for a sort of fascination 
was upon her, and she could not keep her eyes from his 
face. 

His face was dark and sullen ; there was a glitter in his 
eyes which she did not understand. He felt that she 
watched him, and it angered him. He was restless even 
while eating his meals, and his eyes under their lowering 
black brows kept a furtive watch out of the window. As 
for herself, she ate little, for she felt as though food would 
choke her should she dare to eat. She could not explain 
the terror that possessed her, but her whole listless nature 
was aroused. She was different, and her life was somehow 
different, she knew not how. And the memory of his face 
as he watched young Green ride up the mountain haunted 
her as did the memory of the young man himself, and she 
could not shake off the thoughts that would come with it. 
She had no definite knowledge of what it meant, only 
there was a new element in her life. 

The slow days passed, it seemed to her, with even more 


THAT GIBL OF JOHHSOHS. 


23 


slowness than was their wont, and the days were slow. 
Every morning the red sun arose out of a vail of haze from 
the mountain beyond the valley ; every evening he sank 
behind the gray peaks in the west. The grass shriveled 
for lack of rain ; the pines alone stood up straight and tall 
from the mountains hidden in the haze. 

Nothing happened after all ; life was stagnant. Once a 
buck in search of water strayed up to the low house. 
Dolores was at the door, and saw him, but she offered him 
no harm ; it were doubtful whether or not she knew how to 
use a rifle. 

Johnson saw him from the shop, and went up to the 
house for the rifle. By the time he had loaded it the buck 
had fled. He went in search of him, but failed to get even 
a shot. Had Dolores been a boy, he said, she would have 
shot the buck ; his cursed luck that she was not a boy ; 
boys were of use. 

Still life went on ; the sun arose and set ; the haze hung 
more dense and thick over the mountain peaks. No rain 
fell ; nothing happened. Nothing happened until — 

One day the rumor floated across the mountain that 
young Green’s mare, one of the choicest breed in the 
country, valued at what seemed to the simple villagers a 
fabulous sum, had gone lame. And this was discovered 
the morning after she was shod by Johnson. 

To most of the villagers this fact meant nothing. That 
the one had anything to do with the other never entered 
their heads. They had no cause for suspicion. But to 
Dolores the rumor came like a blow. Since that day she 
had been waiting for something to happen ; she had not 
defined the first wild feeling of terror that possessed her ; 
she did not now define the dull sense of dread that took all 
the light out of her life, but it seemed to her in a strange, 
far-away fashion that this was what she had been expect- 
ing. This was why the kindly blue eyes were always 
looking into hers, and the pleasant face was forever in her 
thoughts. This was why the black mare was forever 


24 


THAT OIIiL OF JOHNSON'S. 


carrying her master up the mountain road away from her, 
away from the stolid settlement shut in by the silent 
mountains. 

Her eyes were on her father when the news was told by 
one of the neighbors. Her father had put on his hat, and 
was starting for the tavern after supper when one of the 
men who had been across the mountain hunting, and had 
come back through the town, stopped at the door to tell of 
his luck, and the people gathered one by one at the door to 
listen. This stray item of news strayed in with the rest of 
his gossip, waking only such interest as such a piece of 
news was likely to waken in the quiet little settlement. 

A nail Avas driven into the mare’s hoof, and she was 
dead lame. The hostler had found it when he examined 
her hoof, which Avas not until the morning following the 
day Green was at the settlement. His master had given 
him orders to attend to the animal, but he had failed to do 
this, and all help was out of the question. It Avas a hard 
bloAV to the young man, the speaker said, for he had 
thought as much of her as though she were a AA^oman. 
Conjecture was rife as to who had done the deed. Sus- 
picion rested particularly in one direction, and the suspi- 
cion Avas pretty Avell founded, but the young man AA^ould 
Avait until there could be not a doubt.’ And here the story 
ended. 

Dolores had listened silently, as was her habit, no one 
noticing her. She never had aught to say in such matters ; 
why should this story interest her more than any other ? 

She AA^as very quiet. The moon AA^as at the full, and rode 
high above the opposite mountain, sending a streak of 
light across the floor. She stepped back out of the door- 
AA’^ay into the shadoAv ; her face Avas draAvn and AAdiite, and 
her lips Avere a straight red line. The memory of her 
father’s words the other day returned to her Avith a force 
she could not account for. The dread was falling upon her 
with reneAved force. Over and over, mingled with the 
memory of the black mare and her rider, the words were 


THAT GIEL OF JOHNSON'S. 


25 


driven in dully, as though by the strokes of a hammer — 
even, distinct, deafening, most terrible to the girl in the 
darkness. 

“Ef ever thet young feller kerns hyar agen et’ll be a 
sorry day fer hem I” 


26 


THAT QIEL OF JOHNSON’S. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A NEIGHBORLY GIFT. 

“Et hev been so dry I’ lowed mebby ther gyarding hyar 
dedn’t ’mount ter much, bein’ as ye air up so high, so I 
bringed ye some strawb’ries outen our gyarding, D’lores. 
They’d never been no ’count neither ef Josiah ’n me 
hadn’t a-spent consid’rable time a-waterin’ of ’em. Gyard- 
ing truck springed up pretty middlin’ in ther spring, but 
ther dry spell hev knocked ther life outen et. So I kem in 
ter bring ye these. ” 

“Thank you; our garden didn’t amount to much,” 
Dolores said, gravely. She looked at her neighbor without 
a sign of interest in her face ; she spoke in her usual list- 
less manner ; but under the listlessness and apparent care- 
lessness was the consciousness like a sharp sword, that the 
gift was the forerunner of something to follow else than 
her pleasure. She emptied the berries out of the basket 
into a dish and stood regarding them. Mrs. Smith said 
afterward she looked as though she were trying to discover 
if they might be “tetched.” In reality the girl did not 
even see them. 

She was wondering vaguely what the woman would say 
about the mare. That she had come for some purpose out- 
side of bringing the fruit was clear to her. During the 
twenty years of her life there had been a dry spell like this 
every summer ; this gift of fruit was the first she had ever 
received. She waited with a sinking heart and strained 
ears for what the woman would say. She knew well that 
something must follow. That it was in regard to the mare 
of young Green she had not a doubt. Perhaps the sus- 
picion in regard to the guilty party had become a fact. 
Perhaps this woman had come to tell her— perhaps— 
Instinctively she glanced down toward the shop. The 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON^ S. 


27 


doors were open, but no one was there. The hens pecking 
around the doors were the only visible signs of life to her 
anxious eyes. The woman saw the glance, and interpreted 
it according to her mind. 

“Yer feyther is down to the tav’n, D’lores. He hev been 
down thar ther mornin’ through. He says thar ain’t 
nothin’ a-doin’ et ther shop, an’ in my ’pinion thar’ll be 
less a-doin’ ’fore long.” 

Dolores heard and also interpreted the other’s words. 
Unconsciously she began hulling the strawberries with 
mechanical but steady fingers. 

“Times is dull ’nough, ’pears to me,” the woman pro- 
ceeded presently, in the rambling fashion peculiar to the 
settlement. “Lord knows theys dull ’nough, but ef things 
goes on as they’s goin’ on thar’ll be a mighty sight less a- 
doin’, D’lores. An’ nobody ter blame fer et but them as 
brings et on theirselves. First kem ther want o’ rain with 
ther gyardin’ a-dryin’ up spite o ’ther care we giv et ; then 
as though thet warn’t ’nough, hyar kerns ther acc’d’nt ter 
ther mare o’ ther jedge’s son ower yander t’other side o’ 
ther mounting, an’ any o’ us likely to be ketched ef 
’twarn’t thet s’picion rests in one direction special.” 

It was coming. Dolores waited with bated breath, her 
fingers dyed with the juice of the berries. She looked at 
them, and the thought came to her that they were like 
blood. Did the hand of a murderer look like them, she 
wondered ? And then again were there not deeds as bad if 
not so desperate as murder— the calm planning of a deed 
born of hatred, executed in cold blood— not quite murder, 
but harm done in a roundabout way to injure and annoy ? 
Such deeds as they said were done from malice, the penalty 
of which was a heavy fine and imprisonment, and the dis- 
grace that would be forever a cloud upon them. A heavy 
sense of guilt fell upon her ; she could not meet the gaze of 
the eyes bent upon her, and she went on hulling the 
berries, her eyes fastened upon the red fruit, her thoughts 
with the young man with the kindly eyes and smiling 


28 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


mouth, with her father, with the terrible cloud that would 
settle over the guilty one when it should be proved beyond 
a doubt who was guilty— waiting in silence for what she 
knew must come. 

“An’ them as knows says thyar’s a great feelin’ ower in 
ther town yander ’bout ther mare,” the woman’s voice 
struck in on the girl’s thoughts, “an ’says et ’pears she 
were worth a deal o’ money, an’ now nobody’d gev a copper 
fer her. ’Sides thet, ther jedge’s son thought a heap o’ 
her, though I kyan’t fer ther life o’ me see no sense in 
makin’ sech a fuss ower a critter, an’ theys workin’ steddy 
to fin’ out who done ther deed, an’ gettin’ every one theys 
ken ter prove thar s’picions c’rect o’ a certain person.” 

Dolores was waiting. It was coming now, she felt cer- 
tain. She crushed some of the berries in her hand in a 
sudden frenzy. 

“Theys holdin’ court a’most every day an’ workin’ as 
though ’twere some great thing thet a critter’s gone lame. 
Jim kem from thar a spell ago, and says et’s a great thing 
ter see an’ hear ’em a-goin’ on ’bout et. But theys won’t 
do nothin’ with ther s’picioned feller tell thar’s mo’ 
ground, as theys calls et, though young Green do feel 
pretty sartin who is ther guilty one. So theys workin’ like 
beavers ter git him proof, an’ he keeps wot he thinks ter 
himself an’ says nothin’ — leastways so’t no one ken hear 
hem. But now theys got consid’rable proof, an’ there’s 
ter be a great time ter-morrer, an’ theys wants yer feyther 
ter go ter prove thar s’picions c’rect.” 

It was out at last. Dolores seemed turned to stone ; she 
neither moved nor spoke ; she dared not lift her eyes from 
the red berries wtih which her fingers were dyed. Her 
head was whirling ; there was a din in her ears as though 
a legion of spirits repeated and shouted in wild horror : 

“Theys wants yer feyther ter go ter prove— theys wants 
yer feyther ter go— theys wants yer feyther— yer feyther—” 

Her eyes were like those of a hunted animal, half hidden 
beneath their long lashes ; her mind was filled with a great 


THAT QIHL OF JOHNSON^ S, 


29 


longing to go — to get away from the tiny room out on the 
mountain under the quiet heavens where the winds were 
free from the watching eyes. And yet the woman told 
later that the girl had had no sort of interest in her story, 
and had not paid even the attention to it that one might 
from simple friendliness. 

With one slow glance Dolores took in the calm scene 
outside ; the heavens radiant with sunshine, the mountains 
steadfast and still save for the winds that sighed through 
the tall pines. Her ears were filled with their voices as 
they drifted down from the heights — the capricious wind 
voices sighing and murmuring over and over the terrible 
refrain as though it were too horrible to be uttered aloud : 

“Theys wants yer feyther ter go ter prove — theys wants 
yer feyther ter go — theys wants yer feyther — yer feyther — ” 

The woman at the other side of the table arose with an 
injured air. She had received scarcely a word of thanks 
for her berries, scarcely even a show of interest in her 
story. 

“Thyars them as takes an int’rest in thyar feller critters, 
an’ thyars them as don’t,” she said, tartly; “an’ thyar s 
them as has thyar s’picion o’ things.” 


30 


TEAT OIEL OF JOHNSON’S. 


CHAPTER VII. 

OVER THE MOUNTAIN. 

Dolores watched the woman’s tall, gaunt figure go down 
the worn path, her purple print dress brushing the scant 
grass with an indignant sweep, the cape of her sunbonnet 
limp and flapping over her shoulders. When she disap- 
peared from view behind the shrubbery of the road-side 
Dolores put away the dish of berries and put on her gray 
sunbonnet to go out. 

Should her father return from the tavern and not find 
her there it would make no difference. Whatever he 
should wish to eat he could find in the pantry ; about her 
he would not think. 

It was early afternoon ; the sun was high and warm, the 
haze hung around the peaks away up yonder ; down in the 
valley a long shadow stretched out across the meadows 
where the cows were straying, their bells tinkling faint 
and far. The rocky road, like a yellow thread, wound in 
and out among the scrubby bushes and tall pines that mur- 
mured in the breeze. To the ears of the girl they kept up 
their monotonous sobbing about her father as though they 
were living things. 

She was listless no longer ; she walked as one who had a 
purpose, as one who had far to go. Her slender, lithe figure 
was erect, although she walked slowly, being unused to 
walking except about her household duties, she moved 
gracefully and without faltering. Her eyes looked straight 
before her, her lips were set in a straight, stern line. 

She met no one on her way : there was little travel on 
the mountain ; the thriving toAvn over on the other side 
had connection with the world in another direction. A 
railroad ran up to it like a glittering serpent ; it had its 
factories and its churches ; there were pleasant homes and 


THAT QIRL OF JOHNSON^ 8. .. 


31 


educated people there. It was a different world shut off 
from the settlement by the silent, towering mountain. 

In all the twenty years of her life Dolores had never been 
over the mountain ; what lay beyond it she did not know 
except from the rumors that drifted into them from the 
men who had been there — men who had strayed in hunt- 
ing, going around to the opposite mountain and returning 
across the town. 

Sometimes when the atmosphere was heavy and the wind 
in the right direction, the smoke from the tall factory 
chimneys drifted around to the settlement and tangled in 
the pines like gray specters waving their shadowy banners 
above the scattered houses down toward the valley. In 
the minds of the villagers a superstitious fear was attached 
to these fluttering shreds of gray. They boded ill for those 
who saw them ; death or sorrow lurked in their folds, as 
though the evil spirits in the town came over the mountain 
to harm them with their restlessness. 

Many a time Dolores had watched these smoke wreaths, 
and her mind had gone to the place from whence they 
came, and she wove from them fantastic shadows born of 
dreams, and she clothed them in garments of the living, 
and they brought her many fancies of the life pulsing just 
beyond the piny peaks. 

Now hoe mind was filled with the one subject so much 
discussed ; she turned it over and over, viewing it on all 
sides ; now reasoning with herself as to this or that possi- 
bility, this or that decision, but eventually returning to the 
first conclusion which was to her so convincing that it sent 
her over the mountain to the town to discover if possible 
the truth, and at the court was the place to learn what she 
wished to know — if there were any place to learn it ere the 
whole world should know. 

Going over the mountain meant little to her in itself. 
That it would affect her life particularly she did not 
dream ; her one thought was to do what lay before her to 
which she was impelled and return to the old life again. 


32 


THAT GIIiL OF JOHNSON'S, 


She scarcely thought of what would follow ; it was for her 
to do this thing ; beyond that she had no plans. 

As she passed over the mountain and down on the other 
side the town lay out before her ; a thriving town ; smoke 
arose black from the towering chimneys, the whir of 
machinery, the rattle of wagons and din on every-day life 
were borne up to her as sounds of a strange land. Life 
was down there ; busy men ; work that showed and helped 
on the world’s work. The sunlight fell across the roof of 
a school-house ; the tall spire of a church pointed to heaven 
like a steadfast finger ; a frame-house, neat and cheery, 
betokened a friendly feeling. 

The knowledge began to g:row in her mind that the life 
in the slow little settlement beyond the mountain was too 
narrow, too shut into itself, too lacking in energy and 
growth. But this was a new world to her and she shrank 
from it, not from any foolish feeling of inferiority ; such a 
thought could hold no room in her mind, but as a wild 
animal instinctively shrinks back to its natural world. 
Then the feeling left her ; the old thought drove every 
fear, every other feeling away ; she had come for a purpose 
and as yet it was not accomplished. 

She passed steadily down the road looking neither to 
right nor left ; she walked straight up the village street, a 
slender figure carrying herself gracefully in spite of a 
certain air of strangeness. 

The court-house was at the farther end of the town ; she 
had heard them say so. A long, low, white building with 
wide steps and a bell in the tower. The houses were neatly 
painted, most of them on streets crossing from the main 
street ; some had piazzas and blinds to the windows, and 
dainty curtains. It was a new world to the girl. 

On the main street as she passed farther down, the 
houses gave place to stores. People passed her and 
wagons ; they were all new to her, and had she not been 
on her errand she would have felt awkward and strange ; 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON^ S. 


33 


as it was, she never thought of herself ; she was constantly 
on the lookout for the court-house. 

At length she came to it ; she knew she was right ; a 
long, low, white building with wide steps and a bell in the 
tower. 

There was no sign of life about except a dog on one of 
the steps. He arose and looked at her with bristling hair, 
but she hardly looked at him, for she was a little bewil- 
dered, and scarcely knew what to do. The dog sat down 
with a friendly wag of his tail. 

She walked up the steps past the dog, and turned the 
handle of the door, but could not open it. This ending of 
her journey had not entered her head. For a moment she 
stood in doubt what to do. People passing on the street 
looked curiously at her. A boy who was sitting astride of 
the fence called to her that the door was locked ; but if she 
wanted the lockup it was down around the corner. 

She did not know he was laughing at her ; she walked 
down the steps and spoke to him. She asked him where 
she could find the judge. She was looking at him with her 
straight, level glance, and he was disconcerted. He began 
to whistle, whittling the fence post in self-defense. Then 
he answered her. The judge, he said, lived in the house 
on the hill ; if she came down the main street she must 
have passed it. He knew she did not belong in the town, 
and shrewdly guessed that she came from the settlement 
beyond. 

Not a bit of her resolution was gone as she retraced her 
steps, but she walked swiftly, for it was growing late. A 
stone house, the boy said, with a fiat roof and little cran- 
nies around the windows ; there was no fence around it ; 
the lawn was smooth and green ; a terrace sloped down to 
the street. It was the only one of the sort in the town. 

She found it without trouble ; she mounted the steps and 
knocked at the big door. She did not know she should 
ring the bell. No one came ; a little terrier rushed yelping 
around the corner of the house and up to her ; a Newfound- 


34 


THAT OIBL OF JOHNSON'S. 


land arose from the other end of the piazza. She knocked 
again and louder ; then again she waited. No one came. 
If the judge were gone where should she find him ? That 
she might fail to find him did not enter her head. 

A step sounded on the gravel at the side of the house ; 
she turned and faced the new-comer. 

“Dolores !” exclaimed young Green, in astonishment. 

A red fiush crept in her face. 

“I want to see the judge,” she said, gravely, and there 
was a wistfulness in the large dark eyes raised to his for 
an instant that caused his heart to throb strangely while a 
flush also arose in his own face. 

“My father? He is not at home. When the court ad- 
journed at three he took the train to N . If you wish 

to see him I am sorry. Will not I do instead? Come in, 
Miss Johnson ; my mother would be pleased to meet you.” 

She was unused to being called “Miss Johnson,” and 
scarcely heard the unfamiliar name. 

He bade the dogs be quiet, and opened the door, waiting 
for her to pass in. 

“I won’t stay,” she said. “The judge is not at home. I 
came to see the judge.” 

She turned down the steps, and he closed the door, fol- 
lowing her. The dogs were leaping around him, but he 
sent them back and joined her. 

“If you will not go inside, may I walk with you. Miss 
Johnson ?” 

She bowed her head, and they passed up the street to- 
gether in silence. That the people they passed, and whom 
her companion greeted, turned and looked curiously after 
them she did not know ; had she known it would have 
affected her little. She came on an errand, and could not 
accomplish it ; that thought was uppermost in her mind, 
blended as it always was in thinking of it, with the face 
and eyes of the young man beside her. 

“Dolores,” he said at last, when they were climbing the 
rough road beyond the town, unconsciously using the 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


35 


name. “Dolores, why did you wish to see my father to- 
day ? It must be something special or you would not have 
come. Could not I do as well ?” 

Some way his kindly heart was aching for her with the 
remembrance of that swift, wistful glance of the brown 
eyes into his own, and he would comfort her if he could ; 
he could not let her go back to that sluggish settlement 
and her strange life without doing what he could. He 
even touched her arm almost as wistfully as she could 
have done, though she did not know it ; she was shut in 
upon her thoughts and deaf to all else. 

She did not look at him ; her gaze was fixed on the pines 
away on the mountain behind which the sun was setting. 
But he knew she heard and would answer presently. 

“I came to see about the mare,” she said, slowly, her 
eyes still fastened on the pines upon the height. Then 
suddenly, with a swiftness that startled him, she added : 

“You know who did it? You have known from the 
first ? Everybody knows who did it. It will be proved to- 
morrow beyond a doubt. ” 

He looked at her, amazed at her vehemence. 

“We hope to prove it to-morrow,” he said. “We have 
had our suspicions from the first, and now we think them 
well founded. We are depending a good deal on your 
father; we have considerable evidence, but his will be 
conclusive. ” 

She knew nothing of law or its terms ; the words held a 
terrible meaning for her. 

“It was a dastardly deed !” he went on, his face darken- 
ing. “The fellow shall suffer the full penalty of the law 
for it. My beautiful mare that was almost human in 
intelligence. ” 

Her hands were clasped fiercely, her eyes burning when 
she turned toward him to make reply, and for the moment 
he forgot all else but her face. 

“And it is right !” she cried ; “it is right ! What if his 
people do suffer for it ? That the name will cling to them 


36 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


forever? It is only right that he should suffer It is just. 
It was a dastardly deed. Only— only don’t come with me 
any farther. I — had — rather go alone. ” 

He obeyed, but followed at a distance. The road was 
lonely ; there were no houses till she reached the settle- 
ment below. The sun had set ; in the east above the oppo- 
site mountain, the full moon rode ; it cast a mellow light 
along the road down which the girl was passing. The 
silence was solemn ; the bustle in the town was dying 
down ; the usual quiet reigned in the settlement. A soft 
haze arose from the valley far beneath, floated and wavered 
noiselessly up toward the moonlight. 

Up on the heights the young man stood motionless 
watching the girl passing from him in the moonlight. The 
light was full in his face. It was an earnest face and 
good ; one to be trusted ; never to prove treacherous. He 
watched until the girl, dimly discerned down among the 
shadows, paused a moment on the threshold of the bare 
little house, and then entered. And to him as he turned 
away, his thoughts in a tumult, the mysterious mist and 
the moonlight seemed to have swallowed her up. 


THAT OIBL OF JOHKSOH'S, 


37 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE STRAYED COW. 

Dolores sat in the door- way waiting for her father’s re- 
turn from the tavern. He had been to the house while she 
was over the mountain, and had his supper. She herself 
had eaten nothing, for she had no appetite in spite of her 
walk over the mountain. 

The moonlight was luminous ; the opposite mountain 
was touched with a misty glory up on the peaks ; below 
were mysterious darkness and phantom shreds of gray 
mist floating up from the valley. The pines on the bank 
beside her whispered mysteriously, their fragrance filling 
the air with a subtle sense of strength and healing. Their 
voices were familiar to the girl from childhood ; to-night 
they sounded strange and full of meaning. 

She was quite idle, her hands in their old listless attitude 
in her lap, her dark head resting against the unpainted 
door-post, her grave face and thoughtful eyes raised to the 
heavens. The moonlight falling across her face defined it 
clear and perfect as marble ; upon the clean bare floor 
behind her lay her shadow long and dark. 

The night was silent ; the distant sound of rude singing 
from the tavern died away ; the lights went out one after 
another in the long, low houses. Dolores began to wonder 
vaguely why her father did not come. Midnight had 
passed ; the hours ticked away one by one on the big clock 
in the corner ; the moon hung round and golden above the 
mountain peaks in the west ; in the east a streak of whiter 
light “^ppe^red, broadened and deepened. The girl’s 
shadow disappeared from the floor ; it lay in front of her 
on the door-stone. 

A cock crowed shrilly ; another took up the call ; many 
replied. The moonlight waned ; the moon grew pale up in 


38 


THAT OIRL OF JOHNSONH, 


the sky ; the east was flushing with rose and violet ; the 
valley and the opposite mountain were shrouded in mist ; 
the pines stirred with a rising wind. Dolores saw and 
heard all ; her eyes were wide and sleepless ; her face 
looked haggard and worn in the light of the morning sky. 

Up on the bank beside her sounded a heavy tread ; the 
bushes under the pines were rudely parted ; the sound of 
deep breathing disturbed the heavy silence. Dolores turned 
her watchful eyes inquiringly ; she felt no sense of fear ; 
she was waiting for her father ; all else was of little 
moment ; she had been brought up in a stolid atmosphere. 
The paling moon shone in two large eyes regarding her 
from between the dewy bushes ; a soft broad nose nearly 
touched her face. She roused from her apathy ; with one 
slow hand she smoothed the broad head beside her. 

“Brindle,” she said, gravely, “you have lost your bell.” 

The cow lowed softly ; she tossed her head and scattered 
the dew from the bushes ; then she stepped carefully down 
from the bank, and stood before the girl. 

“Brindle,” Dolores said, still in that mechanical fashion, 
“you have not been milked ; you did not come home last 
night.” 

She arose and entered the house listlessly for the pail, 
then she called the cow and sat on the door-stone to milk 
her ; the strangeness of the act never entered her mind. 
Life was growing strange to her and crowding out any 
conventionality there might be in it. 

Over the opposite mountain the sun rose, touching its 
summit with silver and blue and amber, stirring the mist 
below, shooting it through and through with arrows of 
gold. The birds awoke ; they fluttered among the tree-tops 
and dewy bushes ; their tiny throats filled the air with 
melody. Columns of smoke began curling and circling up 
through the blue atmosphere ; windows were opened ; the 
lazy life of the settlement was astir. 

Dolores carried the pail with its foaming contents into 
the house ; she strained the milk and set it away on the 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON* S. 


39 


pantry shelves to set ; she built a fire on the kitchen hearth 
and prepared breakfast; she set the square pine table 
ready when her father should come. Then she sat down 
on the door-stone again to wait for him. 

The cow was cropping the grass on the road-side, her 
breathing deep and contented. Lodie, the next neighbor, 
came up the road with a bucket. His well was low in this 
dry weather ; Johnson’s well was public property at such 
times. He walked awkwardly when he saw Dolores ; 
under her eyes he always felt himself humbled ; her large 
eyes saw through and through one ; a liar lost his glibness 
in her presence. He shambled up to the wall and set down 
his bucket ; he was in his shirt sleeves and hatless ; the 
rope ran through his brawny hands with a dull shriek. 

“A sheer day,” he said, apologetically, looking at the 
brindle. 

Dolores looked at him, and he knew she heard him, 
though she did not speak. 

^‘Hevyer feyther got back yet?” he asked, presently, 
more to break the oppressive stillness and the conscious- 
ness of her eyes upon him than for conversation, for Lodie 
was given to few words. 

Dolores roused herself, a slow thought coming to her 
mind. 

“I have been waiting for my father,” she said. “Is he 
still at the tavern ?” 

Lodie held the bucket suspended half way down the 
well ; a dull surprise was the leading expression on his 
face. 

“Don’t ye know where he went, D’ lores? Warn’ t ye 
hyar when he kem up fer his gun an’ started ter hunt ther 
cow ower yander on ther mounting? Jenkins kem in 
yesterday from ther opp’site mounting an’ tole et ther 
tav’n yer cow were a-strayin’, an’ yer feyther kem up fer 
his gun so’t ef he kem ’cross game on his way he’d hev a 
show fer et. Ther cow is hyar ; where’s yer feyther ?” 


40 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’S. 


“I don’t know,” she said ; “ I didn’t know he had gone ; 
I have been waiting for him. ” 

Then a sudden sharp fear woke in her mind ; she arose 
and faced Lodie, the sunlight on her head. 

“If he went over on the opposite mountain to hunt 
Brindle and has not returned he must have lost his road, 
or gotten hurt, or something to keep him. ” 

“Yes,” said Lodie, slowly. “An' theys want him et ther 
court ter-day; ef he ain’t thyar they’ll kem fer him; 
theys sweared they’d hev him, fer ther thing kyant be 
settled tell he goes. ” 

Dolores sat down. For one moment she had forgotten 
the terrible trial ; she had forgotten that they wished her 
father to prove — 

“ But, ” Lodie continued, still with no show of interest, 
“he’ll kem ’long presently. Ef he don’t find the critter 
he’ll reckon she hev come home ; theys pretty hard to 
lose ’ceptin’ through malice.” 

He swung .the bucket up on the edge of the well and 
emptied the contents into his own bucket. At the cool 
sound of the water Brindle stopped cropping the road-side 
grass and came up, lowing. Lodie emptied his bucketful 
into her trough, and drew another for himself. Then he 
passed down the road in silence, his slouching figure like a 
blot on the exquisite landscape. 

Breakfast was ready, and Dolores went in and set the 
potatoes and bacon at one side of the hearth ; the coffee 
was ready to make ; she never made that till it was ready 
to be drank. She was trembling with weakness and the 
unusual excitement of the past few days ; she had neither 
eaten nor slept since the previous morning ; she ate noth- 
ing now ; she had not learned that one must eat to live, 
that one must live whether or not the world went well. 
Excitement fed her appetite ; that she was weak she real- 
ized as she went about the room. 

When all was ready within she went out to the bank 
under the pines. The sun was high and warm, but under 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


41 


the pines the shadows were cool and dark ; and there she 
waited for her father. 

By and by the men of the settlement started over the 
mountain in groups of twos and threes. Dolores watched 
them go, scarce taking her eyes from them till their 
slouching figures faded and blended with the yellow road 
and the rugged paths. As they passed they asked for her 
father, every one receiving the same reply. Later one or 
two of the women came up that way. They had never 
taken much interest in the girl, but now their curiosity 
was roused as to her father’s non-arrival on the particular 
day when he was most needed for the trial. No one could 
give them the information they sought but Dolores, there- 
fore they went to her. When they learned that she knew 
even less than they about the matter they did not linger. 
Not one of them thought that she might be in sore need of 
comfort and the comfort only one woman can give another. 


42 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSONH. 


CHAPTER IX. 

IDLE TONGUES. 

Later, as Dolores watched, a yellow cloud of dust arose 
where the road and the sky seemed to meet. She watched 
it mechanically ; her father would not come that way ; her 
father did not like the town well enough to come that 
way ; he would come up from the valley. As the cloud 
appeared and drew nearer out of it appeared a body of 
horsemen riding at a sharp pace down the rough road ; 
their errand must be urgent, Dolores thought, idly, for it 
was not the rule for fast riding on the mountain. 

They slackened their pace as they came up. The girl 
was plainly discernible in her print gown under the pines. 
They halted at the rickety gate, and one of them dis- 
mounted and went up the walk. He removed his hat as 
he drew near Dolores. 

She arose with wondering eyes, though there was still 
that wistfulness in their depths that moved the heart of 
the beholder — a wistfulness that was clear almost as a 
question, for sympathy in her trouble. 

“ Miss Johnson?” 

She hesitated a moment ; the name was unfamiliar to 
her save as used by young Green. Then she bent her head 
in reply. 

“Your father?” 

“He is not here,” she said, slowly. 

“ Where can we find him ?” 

“I do not know.” 

“But we must find him.” He frowned sternly ; his face 
and voice were authoritative. “ He is summoned to appear 
in court to-day in the Green case ; the law cannot wait. 
Can you give us no idea where we can find him ?” 

“No.” 

He looked at her searchingly. Was she shielding her 


THAT OIRL OF JOHNSON’S. 


43 


father ? Was she trying to baffle the law ? These mountain 
people were so fearful of the law in spite of their contempt 
for its commands. There was not a trace of guilt in her 
face ; her eyes were looking down the mountain — large, 
beautiful eyes, full of noble truth. 

He returned to his companions and reported that John- 
son was not there ; his daughter did not know where he 
was. They held a consultation. If it were possible John- 
son must be found and brought to court that day ; law and 
right must not be delayed. Riding down the mountain 
they halted at the tavern. The tavern keeper’s wife came 
out to meet them ; she was a short, stout woman with a 
face that held almost no expression, and she was slow of 
movement like her neighbors, but she could talk ; she was 
always ready to give or receive news. 

They asked for water ; she said water was scarce on the 
mountain, but she could give them cider if that would do. 
She hoped it would rain soon. 

They replied that cider would do very well — in fact, 
much better than water for their purpose, for they had a 
rough time before them. 

She brought the cider to them in queer brown mugs, and 
watched them as they drank ; she was full of curiosity in 
regard to them. They were flushed, and drank the cider 
like water ; the mouths of their horses were flecked with 
foam and their flanks were dark with sweat. 

As they drank they asked for the host. He was away, 
she said, gone over the mountain to the town ; a trial was 
being held there, had they not heard of it ? Nearly every 
one had heard of it ; it was making a stir. The mare be- 
longing to young Green, the judge’s son, had been lamed 
through malice ; she had been worth a deal of money, but 
this had ruined her. Folks were excited about it ; there 
was to be a trial there, and Johnson — had they ever heard 
of Johnson? — was all they were waiting for to lay the 
guilt where it belonged ; he knew more about it than most 
folks ; some thought — 


44 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 


Did Johnson go? No, not that she knew of, and she 
would know. He went over to the opposite mountain last 
night to hunt his cow ; J enkins had seen her there, and he 
told Johnson so at the tavern ; Johnson went right over to 
hunt her ; he took his gun in case he came across game, 
but that was useless unless he were luckier than usual, for 
Johnson was too shiftless to have luck. 

Yes, the cow came back ; she had lost her bell ; he would 
expect to find her by that ; doubtless he would keep on 
hunting ; he hadn’t sense enough to know she would most 
likely come home by herself. But if he did not wish to re- 
turn for reasons best known to himself — Johnson was 
shiftless, but he was no fool about some things. 

His girl now had about as little sense as was possible. 
She did not even know when she was well off ; she was 
like her mother for all the world, only worse. 

In what direction did Johnson go? She was not sure; 
she believed he went right down the road across the 
valley. There was a bridge across the river if one fol- 
lowed the road along the foot of the mountain a bit. Up 
the other mountain was a bridle path narrow and rough. 
If she remembered rightly that was where Jenkins said he 
saw the cow. Johnson’s girl was away at the time ; she 
went up the mountain that afternoon and did not return 
until late ; no one saw her come back, but one of the men 
met young Green on the road pretty late in the evening. 
What did she go for? Well, folks said a good many 
things, and had their suspicions The judge’s son had been 
to Johnson’s shop two or three times lately to have his 
mare shod, and on these occasions he went up to the house 
to see the girl. Johnson said so himself. And he brought 
her books. That girl of Johnson’s was set on reading ; she 
cared for nothing else. Young Green talked considerably 
to her ; he seemed struck with her ; he asked Johnson if 
she Avere his daughter — as though it were likely she were 
any one else’s daughter. He said she Avas an uncommon 
girl. 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


45 


As for Dolores, she seemed to like him to talk to her ; 
she was not in the hahit of talking much ; she never talked 
with her neighbors, she felt above them ; he was the judge’s 
son, and^ no doubt, she felt flattered that he took notice of 
her. Their men never said much to her, for they did not 
like her. Maybe she went over the mountain. Well, 
maybe she went because she wished to go. How could she 
answer for her ? Perhaps — 

Could they find Johnson if they tried? She did not 
know. The opposite mountain was a dangerous place; 
there were sharp ledges and turns and deep chasms ; folks 
seldom ventured over there except for hunting ; they had 
no cause to go. 

Did they want Johnson? He was not in the habit of 
going off ; he never went hunting except on their own 
mountain ; he had no go ahead in him ; he was shiftless, 
and so was his daughter — only worse. 

They had accomplished their errand and paid her liberally 
as they arose to go, more determined than ever to find 
Johnson were it a possible thing. 

She watched them from the door- way ; they were atten- 
tive listeners, and she wished they had staid longer. 
One of the neighbor women came in to learn about them. 
There was little that passed without the eyes and ears of 
jthe village were open. Another and another followed 
I until there were most of the women of the settlement. 

; They talked about Johnson pretty freely, and told their 
’ suspicions. They wondered about Dolores, too, and why 
young Green should have been on the mountain the pre- 
vious nigiit. It was after their idle fashion that they 
gossiped. Did the girl care about her father ? She showed 
little interest, but then she showed little interest in any- 
thing or any one excepting young Green, and it was pecu- 
liar why she should have gone over the mountain the 
day before, and why he should have been so near the 
settlement, but then that girl of Johnson’s amounted to 
nothing anyway, and she could do as she chose so far as 


46 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON^ 8. 


she did not corrupt the morals of their daughters. She 
was like her mother, only worse. 

Lodie’s mother said Jim found her sitting on the door- 
step when he went up for water that morning ; she looked 
like a ghost, she was so white and thin, and her eyes were 
larger and darker than usual. Nobody could tell about a 
girl like her, she was capable of doing almost anything. 
And she had so little feeling about her father and the trial. 

It was strange what young Green could find in her. 
Their girls, every one, were more attractive than she. 
They had always said she would not amount to much even 
from the day she was born ; her mother never amounted to 
much, and she was like her mother. All the Johnsons 
were shiftless excepting Lemuel, and, no doubt, he had his 
reasons for leaving them out of his life. A girl like 
Dolores would never do any one credit. They did not 
blame him. 


TEAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


47 


CHAPTER X. 

THE SEARCH. 

The deputies rode slowly down the mountain. The road 
was hard for their horses and uncertain, besides it was 
strange to them, and strange ground was unsafe. They 
talked little. On leaving the tavern one of them remarked 
that the woman knew what she was talking about, and 
now they would find J ohnson if such a thing were possible, 
for they had more reason than ever to find him. But that 
girl of his must know where he was, and they ought to 
make her tell. 

The man who had interviewed her here interposed. He 
believed the girl ; she could not lie with such eyes as she 
had ; they were the truest eyes he had ever seen ; seeing 
them one would not soon forget them ; they were like the 
eyes of a fawn — wide and tender. Besides, did not the 
woman say that the girl was over in the town the day be- 
fore ? If they kept on they would doubtless find him ; the 
law was not to be baffled when once it was roused. 

They laughed at his warm words of defense for the girl, 
chaffing him as to his susceptible heart, warning him to 
beware of the eyes of women, but they said no more in 
regard to the girl’s knowledge of her father’s whereabouts. 
He was kind hearted, but in their hearts they held him in 
higher esteem because of that. One of the men, to change 
the subject, offered the suggestion that perhaps Johnson 
had crossed the valley and entered the town while they 
were searching there for him. It was a pity everything 
was so dry ; if the ground were soft they could track him 
easily, and they must find him if possible, for they had 
orders not to return until they had used every means to 
secure him. 


48 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


The others shook their heads in dissent of this view. 
They all were a little under the influence of the cider, for 
it was strong and the heat was oppressive. It was not 
likely Johnson was in the town, they said, for he had a 
wholesome horror of the law, as had all the mountain 
people in these settlements, and if the woman spoke truly 
he had good reason not to go there. The woman must 
know him; they had lived in the settlement all their 
lives ; she evidently appreciated the law and wished to aid 
the right. Perhaps there was method in the girl’s lack of 
sense ; she did not look like a fool ; as Howe said, she could 
not be a fool with such eyes. 

They rode along the road at the foot of the mountain. 
The haze had lifted and was drifting overhead, making the 
sunlight brazen ; the sluggish river was dirty and black 
from the soot and smoke of the town ; it moaned like a 
living thing along its banks and over the rocks ; it sobbed 
under the worn old bridge as though for the rain, for the 
want of which it was dying ; the clamp of the horse-hoofs 
as the men rode over could not drown the sound of its 
moaning. The pipes above seemed bending in sympathy ; 
the jagged rocks murmured in reply. 

They rode along the foot of the mountain in search of the 
path of which the woman spoke. There was no road here 
as along the other mountain ; a narrow line half hidden by 
long grass and tangled bushes straggled in and out capri- 
ciously, as though to puzzle its followers, now up the 
mountain side, again straying out into the valley meadows 
nearer the river’s moaning. Above, among the pines, the 
blue haze was tangled, hiding all beyond ; the dread mys- 
tery of the mountain clung like a garment about it. 

The men rode on in silence ; there was a solemnity 
around them that hushed all light words. The enormity 
of their undertaking dawned more and more upon them ; 
to search for a man in that wilderness with the mountain’s 
heart for his hiding-place and its robe of haze for his 
shield was absurd. There were chasms and dangerous 


THAT GIBL OF JOHNSON’S. 


49 


places, sharp turnings and winding paths, ledges hidden 
by haze that would swallow a man as completely as a 
sepulcher, and leave no trace, massive rocks overhead that 
a tremor of the mountain would hurl upon them. No 
wonder the men grew silent and allowed the horses to 
have their way ; man could not follow the dangerous, 
hidden paths ; only brute instinct could find the safe 
places. 

They came at last to the path up the mountain, and the 
horses refused to take it until urged by whip and spur. It 
was a path that shielded all beyond it, as though the 
mountain had made a fastness that none could break. 
The horses toiled up slowly, slipping now and again on the 
treacherous ground ; the tangled bushes and low boughs 
swept them as they passed ; above the pine boughs parted 
enough for a man’s head to pass untouched beneath. Now 
and again the path seemed lost in the wilderness of bushes 
and ferns; great rocks loomed ahead and the path that 
seemed cut off turned sharply and wound up the mountain ; 
again and again the horse-hoofs paused on the edge of a 
chasm half hidden by haze, and the men with white faces 
held them up by main force from the ghastly depths be- 
neath their very feet. Their voices, as they shouted in 
hopes of a reply had Johnson lost his way, sounded grue- 
some in the loneliness. 

Half way up the mountain they paused and faced about. 
It was useless, they said, and foolish to follow the path up 
higher ; no man would wander up there of his own free 
will ; facing the law were preferable ; one knew what to 
expect from it. Here death laid his traps in secret and 
lured his victim on ; he waited at every corner and lurked 
near every rock ; he was above, below, and before them ; 
he reigned in the mountain’s heart. If Johnson were there 
he might stay there ; their lives were of more value than 
his ; they would return to the town and report the utter 
hopelessness of the search. It would be wiser to search 
for him nearer home ; to hide from the law showed that 


50 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


he was cowardly, and a coward would never come there. 
They would stop at the tavern, and speak to the woman 
again ; her words might be wiser than they thought. And 
they would speak again to that girl of Johnson’s ; she 
might be more willing to talk, and she was no fool. 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


51 


CHAPTER XI. 

AT THE TAVERN. 

The woman came to meet them as they rode up. Foam 
dripped from the mouths of their horses, and their heads 
hung listlessly, while their flanks were covered with 
sweat. The men dismounted and loosened the saddle 
girths; they removed the bits and called for food for 
them. 

Their orders were readily obeyed, for they had paid lib- 
erally before, and she knew it was to her advantage to 
treat them with all due respect. Doubtless they would 
have news, too, and news was most welcome next to 
money. There were no men about the place, for all had 
gone to the town, but a stout girl so much the image of the 
woman there could be no doubt of her being her daughter 
was sent to the stables for the feed and to fill the trough 
with water. Then when the men had bathed the mouths 
with water and seen that they were well supplied with feed 
they went inside and ordered their own dinner. The 
shadows of the trees were refreshing after their tiresome 
ride, and they sat just inside the low door- way where the 
faint breeze, blowing softly from the mountain, fanned 
their faces with its piny breath. 

The woman was not without tact ; no woman is ; she set 
the pine table near them ; there was no cloth upon it, but 
it was white and clean, and the dishes also were clean 
though somewhat broken and old-fashioned. Thev had 
been her mother’s before her, and would, doubtless, last 
through her daughter’s life-time. Her daughter cooked 
the bacon and eggs to a turn — most of the women were 
excellent cooks ; the potatoes were white and flaky ; the 
milk was thick with cream — most of the guests of the 


52 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON* S. 


tavern received skimmed milk, but these were special 
guests, and she gave them the best she had. 

These Avere set on the table in as appetizing a manner as 
she knew. The bread Avas light and well done ; the butter 
yelloAv as gold — butter was seldom used in the household ; 
the pitcher of cider was clear ; the mugs they drank from 
Avere polished. 

They ate as hungry men eat ; the fare was simple, but to 
them it Avas as the best. The woman hovered near them ; 
no Avord of theirs should be lost on her ears ; such guests 
Avere uncommon. They praised the eggs and bacon ; the 
butter was better than any the toAvn could offer ; the cream 
on the milk was delicious. Had Johnson returned ? they 
asked her. 

Not that she had heard of, she replied, a flush on her 
face at their words of praise for the cooking. She Avould 
knoAv if he had ; she kneAv everything that happened in the 
place. Did they Avant Johnson? Had they been searching 
for him ? 

Yes, they replied, they Avanted Johnson; he AA^as sum- 
moned to appear in the town in the Green case, of AA^hich 
she had been telling them. He was not over on the oppo- 
site mountain ; they had searched for him there, and 
shouted until they were hoarse in case he had lost his 
way, but there was neither sight nor sound of him. 

The Avoman said cautiously that he might be hiding 
there, for the mountain was good for a hiding-place ; if he 
had cause to hide from the law or from any one he knew 
well there was the place ; they might search forcA^er and 
Avould not find him. Could not the trial go on AAuthout 
him? 

They looked keenly at her. There AA^as little brightness 
in her face, still it was not a stupid face. 

No. they said, and now they Avere cautious as she ; it Av^as 
necessary to have Johnson ; it was believed he could tell 
considerable about the matter ; should he not appear to- 
day, they must wait. 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


53 


What if he were dead ? she asked, curiously ; if he had 
fallen into some one of the dangerous places on the 
mountain ? 

If he were dead, they said — well, if he were dead that 
would put a different face upon the matter ; they hoped he 
was not dead, for the law should not be baffled. Did she 
think he was dead ? Had she cause to think so ? 

She did not like their keen eyes ; perhaps she should be 
more careful what she said ; the law had a way of finding 
out strange things. 

No, she knew no reason why Johnson should be dead 
unless he had fallen in some of the dangerous places on 
the mountain ; they must know this, for they had been 
there ; for her part she knew nothing about it save from 
what she heard those say who had been there. Johnson 
had never been there before ; he did not like the mountain, 
for it was such a treacherous place, with death waiting at 
every turn. He had said once, though, that if ever he 
went into hiding it would be over there. A man with 
fire-arms could hold his retreat against a hundred until he 
was starved out. 

Was that her daughter, they asked interestedly — that 
pretty girl with the blue eyes and the warm color in her 
cheeks? But, of course, she was her daughter, for she 
was the image of her. There was no need for their asking 
such a clear question. She was different from the girls 
they had seen at the settlement ; she was so far ahead of 
them in fairness of face and form. Did Johnson have any- 
thing of a temper ? Some men had such terrible tempers, 
but from what they had heard they thought he must bo 
somewhat lacking in that. 

The color was in her own face at their compliments of 
her daughter and the subtle compliment to her. They not 
only paid liberally, but were more pleasant spoken than 
most of her guests. Yes, she said, Cinthy was her daugh- 
ter, and the best daughter a woman could wish for. Al- 
ways willing, always pretty and neat. The men who came 


54 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


there — and there were many men — liked to talk to Cinthy 
and to be with her. She wasn’t like that girl of Johnson’s, 
thank the Lord ! She had never allowed her to be much 
with Dolores, and now she was glad since there was this 
mystery about her errand to the town on the previous day ; 
it took so little in even their world to spoil a girl’s life. 
Cinthy should marry the best man in the place or she 
should not marry at all. Both she and her husband had 
made up their minds to that. Yes, Johnson had a temper, 
and had shown it several times lately when the men joked 
him about that girl of his and her feeling above him and 
them, and her liking for young Green. He got in a furious 
rage about young Green not long ago, and swore that if 
ever he came there again it would be a sorry day for him ; 
he vowed to be even with him if ever the chance came in 
his way, though he should wait for years. 

He was sullen, too, and would brood for days over a 
quick word uttered in a joke. Folks did say that he killed 
his wife with his fits of temper. His wife was one of the 
bookish sort ; she cared little for him or for anything out- 
side of her books. She did not know that she blamed him 
for that though ; his wife was a stupid creature. That girl 
of Johnson’s was like her, only worse. Had they seen 
her ? Did they see what young Green could find attractive 
about her ? Her girl could talk better than Dolores ; she 
must talk better, for the men liked to talk with her, and 
she hoped some day she would make a better match than 
ever the other stupid creature would for all her fine 
friend. 

The Johnsons were a shiftless set anyway excepting 
Lemuel. He went away when he was a boy, and folks did 
say that he had made a fortune for himself in New York, 
and was married and well pleased to be rid of his brother, 
and no one blamed him. 

Yes, Johnson might be over at the town, but she doubted 
it ; he was shiftless, but he was no fool. He did not like 
young Green, and would never help on his case if he could 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON* 8, 


55 


help it ; some of them even thought — Would they have 
nothing more ? Were they rested ? They must have ridden 
far, for their horses were fatigued. 

They desired nothing, they said, and paid her liberally 
as before, and rode away, the woman watching them with 
eyes in which there was no shadow of malice in spite of the 
words of hers that must go so hard against Johnson should 
they ever be brought against him. 

They halted at Johnson’s gate. Dolores was still sitting 
there under the pines with her haggard face and idle 
hands, and the eyes that watched for what did not come. 
Johnson was not there, she said, quietly, and they never 
questioned her word, but instinctively lifted their hats as 
they rode away, the wide dark eyes mingling strangely 
with the words of their hostess of a few minutes before, 
holding her to a lie. 


56 


THAT QIRL OT JOHNSON'S, 


CHAPTER XII. 

AND LIFE WENT ON. 

Dolores, worn with watching and faint from lack of food, 
fell asleep at the door-way, and slept the whole night 
through ; the dawning had deepened to broad light when 
she waked. It was a dreary day. She was still weak 
from eating nothing, but the sleep had lessened the dark 
circles under her eyes. She arose with a slow sense of 
despair upon her, a half wish that she might have slept on 
forever, but she crushed it down. 

She bathed her face with cool water from the well and 
brushed her soft hair back, winding it in a heavy coil at 
the back of her head. Her hair was beautiful. One or 
two stray curls clung around her face. As she stood at 
the window in her tiny room gazing across the misty valley 
to the opposite mountain, the vivid light in the east made 
her face look yet more worn and haggard. Her sensitive 
mouth was pathetic in its brave sadness. 

The weather had changed in the night ; the heavens were 
angry with clouds ; the moon formed a ghastly white circle 
through the clouds in the west, just above the pines ; the 
east was a-flame with copper-yellow and red. A dead calm 
lay over the mountain; the pines were unmoved by a 
breath ; they stood up stately and silent likcr specters in 
the lurid light. 

The mist of the valley was dense and weird, painted 
with the eastern colors ; only the peak of the opposite 
mountain was visible out of the mist ; this was brazen with 
the reflected colors. It was wrapped around with a flame ; 
it was awful in its misty robes with the flaming crown. In 
its silent heart its mysteries would lie hidden until the 
mountains shall tremble through the revolution of the 
ages, and be scattered into the mdist of the sea. 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


57 


Dolores watched it with a strange fascination, her hands 
hanging listlessly down at her side, her head against the 
casing of the window. Her eyes were wide and troubled ; 
her face flushed luridly in the glaring light. Framed in 
by the window it was a startling picture. Dore would have 
gloried in it. It would not have been allowed to fade and 
grow wan and white again as the color died from the 
heavens. Rhe was trembling violently ; her hands were so 
weak she could scarcely use them, and she wondered 
vaguely why they were so. She built the Are and went to 
the well to draw water for the cow. She called her, and 
Brindle came up loAving. Then she carried water into the 
house and hung the kettle over to boil. She had learned 
that she must eat to live ; that she must live. 

The table was set as she had left it the day before, and 
when she hung the kettle over the fire she took the pail 
and went out to milk Brindle. The cow came obediently 
at her call, and she sat down on the door-stone and milked 
her. 

The east was a dead yellow, pale and wierd : an ominous 
silence brooded over everything. 

Lodie came up for water ; he hesitated as he saw Dolores, 
but she rose up bravely to meet him. She did not speak, 
but her eyes asked him a question. Lodie was dull of 
" comprehension, but he understood. 

“Ther case were postponed,” he said, slowly. “Ther 
jedge were put out consid’rable, but as ’t couldn’t be 
helped he said they’d hev ter wait tell yer feyther kerns. 
They wer ’xcited constid'rable ; theys jest a- waitin’ now fer 
yer feyther ter kem ter prove thar s’picions c’rect. We’s 
goin’ ter hev rain. Ther air’s full ’t. Et’ll kem, too, ’fore 
many hour.” 

He did not linger ; he dared not linger when she was 
watching him ; he did not know what he might be brought 
to say, and he would not tell her of the sensation created 
by the story the deputies had to tell, and of the gossip of 
the tavern k^per’s wife. He *could not tell her of the 


58 


TEAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


roused suspicion regarding Johnson’s non-appearance. He 
left a full bucket on the edge of the well for her. His 
words were rough, his manners rude ; he had no education 
but that which the mountains taught him, but he had a 
heart under the roughness. It was a sluggish heart, and 
seldom weakened, but it sometimes stirred out or its slow 
beat. 

Dolores was unused to attention ; this slight act touched 
her strangely ; she watched him go down the road, and his 
slouching figure had a sort of grace in her eyes. When he 
disappeared beyond the bushes of the road-side her gaze 
wandered to the misty mountain opposite. 

Brindle was straying away unnoticed by the girl. As 
she watched the mountain a brave purpose dawned slowly 
in her eyes. Her face lost its worn and haggard look ; it 
was flushed softly and not by the eastern sky ; the lurid 
light had died out of that, leaving it a dull, ashen gray. 

She arose and carried the pail inside ; the thick froth on 
the milk hissed as she strained it and set it away on the 
pantry shelves. Then she prepared a pot of coffee strong 
and clear, and drank a cupful. She fried some bacon and 
eggs, and ate them determinedly. She was impelled by 
her hidden purpose, and ate that she should have strength. 
Then she cleared the dishes and reset the table; she 
brushed up the floor and polished the hearth ; she opened 
all the windows to let in such air as there was. Nothing 
about her house did she leave undone. 

When she had finished this she filled a large bottle with 
the rich new milk, and hung it at her side with a slender 
rope across her shoulders ; she knew that she would have 
need of both her hands. Then she closed thr door and 
went down the path with a firm step. 

It was the middle of the morning ; the day was broad 
awake, but it was a sullen day boding darkness and rain. 
She pushed her sunbonnet back from her face, and let it 
hang down her shoulders. She felt suffocated in it ; she 
wished to feel free and to breathe, * 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


59 


As she pushed the rickety gate up and fastened it with 
its swinging rope, and turned to go down the road, a step 
crunched the gravel at her side, and a familiar voice 
sounded in her ears, a voice that hitherto had held such 
sweetness to her shut as she had always been in her hard 
life. But she turned now with the free look dying from 
her face and eyes. 


60 


TUAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’ ii. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

YOUNG GREEN AGAIN. 

“Dolores!” exclaimed young Green, eagerly, a warm 
light in his kindly eyes as he went up to her with out- 
stretched hands. His face was pleasant in the dreary 
morning and free from restraint, but the girl wished 
vaguely that he had not come. She gave him her hand 
reluctantly ; she was no longer listless, and it was evident 
to him that she would much rather not have given him her 
hand. 

“I came over to see about your father,” he said, walking 
beside her, leading his horse by the bridle. “You have 
heard nothing from him yet. Miss J ohnson ?” 

She shook her head. A strange feeling of rebellion was 
waking in her heart — a rebellion at life and at fate. 

“I shall find him to-day,” she said, steadily. 

For the first time he noticed the bottle at her waist and 
the strange, sad expression of her face. A knowledge of 
her errand fiashed upon him ; involuntarily he paused, his 
eyes searching her face, and there was a new expression 
on his, a light in the blue eyes that warmed a color into the 
pale, pure face under their kindly scrutiny. He touched 
her arm gently to detain her. 

“You are going to find him. Miss Johnson — Dolores? 
You believe he is lost over on yonder mountain ? What 
fools we were not to have thought of that before. Our 
minds were filled with everything else but possible harm 
to him. Let me go with you ; may I ? What could you do 
should you find him ? And perhaps one or two of the men 
here will go with us. We will stop at the tavern and see. 
Should there be need we would wish more than ourselves. ” 
He used no softening words to her ; he knew she compre- 
hended the possible ending to their search. She was a 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 61 

marvelous woman, and there was no need to soften the 
truth to her. 

“You must ride my horse, Miss Johnson. The way is 
long and rough, and — ” 

Her stifled cry stopped him ; her face was white as death, 
and her eyes dilated with terror. 

“I will walk,” she said, simply. Her lips had lost their 
warm red color ; they were drawn and stiff, and she spoke 
with difficulty ; her wide eyes were on his face in their 
strange wistfiilness. 

“Then I will leave him at the tavern,” he said, quietly, 
to comfort her. He was watching her curiously ; the 
words of the men spoken yesterday after their visit to the 
settlement held a new meaning to him borne in on his 
mind by her horror and terror told so plainly by her face. 

A group of men were around the door of the tavern as 
they approached, and were talking over the events of the 
previous day. The tavern keeper’s wife had given a de- 
scription of the deputies’ visit, and a bit of news like that 
lost nothing in her telling. It was interesting to them, 
and they gave in return the sensation the message the men 
had given created at the court-room. They had their 
opinions, too, and gave them pretty freely. When young 
Green and Dolores appeared their glances were suggestive, 
and they listened in silence when the young man spoke. 
When he finished an ominous silence fell upon them. Then 
Lodie arose. Lodie was tall and slow of movement ; he 
stood up awkwardly among them, but they heeded what he 
said. Green was a good judge of character ; he was used 
to all classes and all kinds of people ; that something kept 
the men silent he was well aware ; but had he known what 
this was he would have faced them with a sterner face and 
a voice that would have brought back any latent manhood 
of which they were possessed. 

Lodie arose, and stood among them tall and awkward. 
Of them all he was the most angular and uncouth, but 
among them he was nobler than they. 


62 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


“Ther dep’ties dedn’t know ther mounting,” he said, 
gravely. “Theys might hev a’ms’ stepped on ’em o’thout 
knowin’ et. Ef he hev met with an acc’dent he mayn’t be 
able ter kem an’ ’ll die ’thout help kem ter ’em. Ef thet 
gal o’ Johnsing’s ken go ower thar ter hunt ’em, I reckon 
we uns ken do ’t. Ef ’twere we as had gone offn ’thout 
kemmin’ back, I hain’t a doubt but he’d be willin’ ’nough 
ter help find me. I’m ’shamed o’ mysel’ ’t I hain’t 
though ted et out afore. ” 

His slow, heavy words roused an interest in his listeners 
as all Green’s words could not do, and they arose at once 
to their duty with many a word of grumbling that passed 
unnoticed because each understood that this was simply 
their way of showing the depth of their interest. What- 
ever they might think in private or gossip over their cider 
they would not hesitate at such a time as this. A half 
dozen powerful fellows with Lodie at their head volun- 
teered to accompany them. Lodie was the first to offer ; 
he was a powerful fellow; Green was above medium 
height, but Lodie towered a full head above him. 

They went to work at once ; they were used to such an 
emergency, and knew what to do. They carried a coil of 
strong, slender rope, and in place of Dolores’ bottle of milk 
a flask of the strongest cider the tavern could produce. One 
of the men proposed that Dolores should remain at home or 
with some of their women, but this she would not do, and 
young Green, understanding her feeling, said she had 
waited long enough ; it would be well for her to go— at 
least it could do no harm. They accepted this view of the 
case in silence ; the matter affected them not at all, and if 
she wished to endanger her neck it was her own lookout. 
They were even courteous to her in their rough way. 

Jones, the tavern keeper, said he wished he had brandy 
to give them, but he had not ; however, he hoped they 
would have no cause to need it. There was a kindly ex- 
pression around his mouth as he said this. He was not 
given to sentiment, but if one got on the warm side of his 


TEAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’S. 


63 


heart he would do pretty much all he could for him, and 
Johnson was a genial man at times, and made the tavern 
ring with laughter that gave life to the quiet place. 

He stood with the rest of the men in the door-way 
watching the queer group going down the mountain sullen 
with the gray light of the threatening day. Mrs. Jones 
and her daughter were in the background also watching 
them. From the inner room they had heard all that was 
said. Mrs. Jones was not a hard-hearted woman, but her 
narrow life had made her narrow-minded ; she had never 
had much need to offer sympathy — or so she said — and 
therefore she had grown out of the possibility of giving 
such. She had never liked Dolores, and she did not see 
why she should be specially kind to her. Especially she 
could not offer her sympathy after her journey over the 
mountain on the errand no one knew about when here was 
her own daughter with the possibilities of a fair future to 
be harmed by any rashness her mother might be guilty of. 
If the girl were fool enough to go in search of her good-for- 
nothing father, she had nothing to say, only she had no 
sympathy for her either. 

When the haze of the valley had swalloAved them up the 
woman turned back into the house with an emphatic shrug 
of her broad shoulders. 

“Theys bigger fools ’n I took ’em ter be,” she said, 
slowly. “Ef theys find Johnsing theys smarter ’n I take 
’em ter be. He’s shef’less, but he ain’t no fool. Kyan’t 
say ther same o’ thet girl o’ hisn though. An’ what young 
Green ken find in her beats me all holler. Let ’em go, says 
I ; fools has ter learn what they is ; they be’n’t willin’ ter 
be telled. Hev ye put ther pertaters on ter bile, Cinthy ? 
Et’s time they is on ; dinner-time ’ll kem, a’n ye’ll hev 
nothin’ ter eat, all owin’ ter watchin’ them fools as is 
goin’ ower yander.” 


64 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’ 8, 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A MORE THOROUGH SEARCH. 

The strange party moved along the ghostly mist of the 
valley road and across the bridge like spirits of the 
mountain. The river sobbed its miserere chorus along the 
rocks and under the bridge as they passed. The path was 
hard to follow ; the gray mist vailed it a few feet ahead 
and the brambles tangled across it as though it were seldom 
trodden. 

They passed up the narrow path in single file ; Lodie was 
ahead ; he knew the mountain as well as any one, but they 
kept close together to guard against straying ; it was so 
easy to stray with that gray shroud winding them in. At 
short distances they paused and shouted Johnson’s name, 
listening for a reply which never came. 

The ascent was hard and toilsome, and Dolores was un- 
used to such exertion ; young Green was athletic, but he 
also had never so had his strength put to the proof. They 
paused many times to rest and recover breath. By and by 
Green helped Dolores Her recent lack of food and sleep 
had unfitted her for such exertion. He drew her nearer 
him, and helped her by her hand, feeling a thrill of pleasure 
at the thought that she was dependent upon him for even 
that help. His hand was strong and steady ; hers trembled 
in his clasp. At first she would not let him help her, but 
after a while she was forced to reach out her hand to him. 
She was panting and weak, but she smiled her slow, brave 
smile, and shook her head when he offered to take her 
home if she wished ; her dark eyes met gently the kindly 
ones bent upon her quiet face. He could not know that in 
spite of her rebellious thoughts it was pleasant to her to so 
feel that she could trust herself to him. That to a certain 


THAT QIBL OF JOHNSON'S. 65 

extent she was dependent upon his greater strength for her 
safety. 

She came to find her father, she said, quietly, and she 
would find him ; she felt certain of that. Her resolute 
spirit reached the others, and inspired them to renewed 
effort when everything seemed useless, and time after time 
they failed in their errand. 

They were near the top of the mountain ; the mist was 
lighter ; they could see the peak of the home mountain 
through the thick boughs and tangled bushes. They paused 
on the edge of the wide chasm into which they had 
narrowly escaped falling. Their faces were pale at such a 
near approach to death ; they shrank back from the brink 
and stood a moment to recover. 

Up in the blue space over the chasm a vulture hovered ; 
the dull flap of his wings was audible in the dead stillness 
and hollow below. Dolores saw him, and her eyes dilated, 
her breath came quick and feverish as she grasped young 
Green’s arm with an energy that startled him. 

“See!” she cried, her sweet, strangely penetrating voice 
full of terror echoing down the misty hollow. “See ! Why 
is he there ? They follow where there are wounded. They 
wait and wait and never tire. They hover like that round 
and round, nearer and nearer until they get their prey. 
He is not there for nothing. ” 

Their eyes followed hers ; her terror was reflected in 
their faces, used as they were to such scenes, and young 
Green instinctivley drew her nearer himself as though to 
shield her from what might follow. They knew of what 
she was thinking. There was nothing certain about the 
vulture’s prey ; it might be a wounded hare, a stag, or — a 
man ! That it was something was certain ; something, too, 
that was wounded, not dead. 

They stood in silence a moment with awe-struck faces, 
while the bird of death hovering above them had a terrible 
meaning for them. Dolores clung to young Green with 
trembling hands in the first wild moment ; she did not feel 


66 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S/ 


his strong arm about her ; there was a look in her eyes he 
could never forget. Then she loosened her hold of him, 
and stood alone slender and stately on the brink of the 
yawning gulf. It was marvelous how she impressed those 
about her with her personality. Many a time afterward 
the young man was wakened in the night with the memory 
of her as she stood there in her utter self-forgetfulness, 
her feet touching the edge of the gulf opening before her, 
her tender face grand with its brave soul, the rough men 
around her silent in the strange spell she held over them. 

“I will call him,” she said, gravely. “He may answer, 
for he is there, I know. ” 

She learned above the void filled in with ghostly mist 
and gruesome shadows ; young Green’s hand was upon her 
arm, but she did not know it. She called aloud, and her 
voice rang down the silence, waking the echoes from rock 
to rock : 

“Father ! Father !” 

The bird of death overhead flapped his heavy wings and 
uttered a fierce cry as a panther might that has lost its 
young. They waited and listened ; no sound disturbed the 
hush of the mountain’s heart save the echoes fainting 
farther and farther into the mysterious depths below : 

“Father ! Father !” 

“He did not hear,” said Dolores, quietly. “Or perhaps 
he cannot answer. I will call again. ” 

That he was there she did not doubt ; whether dead or 
alive she would find him; she believed that, too. She 
placed her hands to her mouth, and her voice again woke 
the echoes like the tones of a flute : 

“Father! Father!” 

The vulture whirred down in front of them with its fierce 
cry. Then suddenly up from the depths, yet not far from 
them, floated a faint call, half moan, half answer. They 
listened as though in doubt, afraid to believe lest they be 
mistaken. Bui again the faint voice sounded not far dis- 


THAT GIBL OF JOHNSON'S, 67 

tant, but weak. Green stretched himself fiat on the 
ground, and leaned far over the perilous edge. 

About twenty feet below a sharp ledge projected, form- 
ing a flat shelf ; this was covered with a tangle of shrubs 
and bushes. The mist hung about it like a phantom 
shroud, and even to Green’s clear eyes it was but faintly 
discernible. Whether or not Johnson was there, he could 
not tell. He called cheerily, and again the weak voice re- 
plied ; the bushes below were stirred slightly, and a feeble 
hand appeared for an instant. 

Green arose swiftly to his feet ; he uncoiled the rope 
with swift sweeps of his muscular young arms, and fasten- 
ing one end around his waist secured the other end to a 
sturdy sapling near. The men understood his design 
without words, and obeyed his orders promptly; they 
were naturally slow, but they were willing. 

Dolores watched them with dilating eyes and her lips 
close shut, as though to stifle a cry. When she saw what 
young Green was about to do, she came forward, a world 
of wonder and horror and pleading in her eyes that were 
larger and darker than usual as they met the steady blue 
ones above her. 

“Do not go,” she said, slowly, as though the words would 
not come. “ Let me go ; it is my duty ; but you — you must 
not risk your life for him. ” 

He replied hurriedly. There was a swift flashing smile 
in his eyes as they met hers, it was pleasant to him that 
she cared for his safety, and he answered her with a swift, 
brave smile. He spoke to the men cheerily, but clearly 
and concisely ; he told them to hold hard and mind their 
work. They were ready, and obeyed him at once, and 
without words. 

As he turned to let himself down over the edge he looked 
toward Dolores. She was standing apart from them white 
and silent, her slender, graceful figure in its homely print 
gown sharply defined against the drooping pine boughs 
that swung low down ; her brown eyes were on him with a 


68 


THAT GIRL 01 JOHNSON'S. 


great wonder in their depths. At the time he did not 
understand, but he smiled at her, and the smile was so 
grave and tender and steady that it seemed to her after- 
ward when she thought of it that he had spoken. 

She neither moved nor spoke ; he believed that she did 
not see him though her eyes were on him till he disap- 
peared over the edge, the rope making a dull whir 
through the grass that stifled all thought in her mind but 
the possibility of danger to him. 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE RESCUE. 

The arms of the men were brawny and strong ; Green 
was light in weight and lithe as a tiger ; the rope ran out 
slowly and steadily, slid out and down over the sharp edge 
of the chasm where the grasses were long and hid the 
sharp cut into emptiness, making a treacherous foothold. 
Overhead the vulture hovered, flapping his heavy wings, 
uttering his long, wild cry of dismay. 

No other sound disturbed the silence of the mountain’s 
heart save the dull whir of the rope through the brackish 
grass and ferns, and the dainty, stealthy patter, patter of 
the coming rain. The pine boughs stirred with the rising 
wind that stole around from the pallid east. Suddenly the 
rope stopped running, grew slack, and Green’s voice came 
up in a shout. Thus silence reigned again save for the 
rain and wind and the dull flap, flap of the great bird’s 
wings overhead. 

Moments passed ; to the girl standing back motionless 
the moments seemed like hours. Her eyes did not move 
from the edge where the rope ran over. Presently the rope 
was agitated ; it swung to and fro, trembled, and then 
hung Arm and steady. Green called again, and they began 
to pull in the rope. It was a dead pull. The men hauled 
in hand over hand, slow, steady, and sure, without a word, 
intent only on their work. A slip might mean sudden 
death to those at the other end. 

Dolores’ eyes widened as she watched them ; her lips 
were apart, a flush on her cheeks. The rain descended in 
great splashes ; it had no intention of stopping ; it had 
come at last, and would stay a while. The mist grew more 
thick and dense, stealing up and up until it reached the 
edge of the chasm. It stole about the men at work at the 


70 


THAT GIRL OF J0HHS0N*8. 


rope and enveloped them silently ; through its gray folds 
they looked like gray specters at work for all eternity, with 
set faces, pulling the rope in and in. 

The vulture in the space above wheeled and circled over 
the mysterious depths, then with a last wild cry of despair 
it hovered a moment overhead, and soared away above the 
pines and rocks, over the grimy top of the mountain 
through the splash of the rain-drops and the moaning of 
the wind, and disappeared. 

The rope came up steady and slow and sure, then Green 
spoke from just below the surface. 

“ Stop ; some of you give me a hand here. Careful. He 
is insensible.” 

They obeyed him without a word ; they were comrades 
at such a time ; trouble and sympathy break down many 
barriers. A terror was on Dolores’ face ; she did not 
move ; her fingers were twisted tightly together ; her lips 
were compressed in a straight red line. The rain was 
splashing down on her uncovered head ; it spattered in 
her face ; it dripped from the thick boughs above her. 

The wind was rising — a damp, chilling wind from the 
east ; it lifted the little wet curls from her forehead and 
touched her cheek with a half caress. It pulled at her 
gown and waved and twisted it wildly about her; it 
sobbed through the pines above her; their breath was 
heavy and strong ; it echoed like eerie voices through the 
misty, mysterious depths of the chasm. 

Her thoughts were in a tumult ; the storm was nothing 
but a familiar friend to her, and she paid no heed to it ; 
she did not take her eyes from the edge where the rope ran 
over ; when the rain-drops splashed in her face and on her 
eyelids her long lashes shook them off. She stood like a 
spirit of the storm, brave and steadfast. 

The men were slow and careful ; it was no light thing to 
lean over the edge of the chasm ; the treacherous edge 
hidden in sedge might give way at any moment, and should 
they slip, should they lose their hold or their balance! 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON^ S. 


71 


The mist was greedy ; it swallowed the deep chasm ; it was 
slowly drawing in the pines above, the narrow path slowly 
but surely the whole mountain. It would swallow them as 
mere atoms ; the heart of the mountain had given it an 
abiding-place ; it coveted the mountain ; slowly it bound it 
in its meshes of flexible gray — flexible, but inexorable. 

The hands of the men though slow were steady ; they 
obeyed Green’s commands as though they were powerless 
of self- thought. They had Johnson up on Arm ground and 
Green after him ; they laid the insensible man on the 
ground with coats for pillows ; they forced some cider be- 
tween his teeth and chafed his brawny hands tenderly as a 
woman would. Two of them cut down a couple of saplings 
and lopped off the branches, making the body smooth; 
these they bound together with two cross pieces ; they 
crossed the rope in a network back and forth. No words 
were uttered ; they worked in silence with a grimness that 
was almost terrible to the watching girl. 

The rain was falling steadily now, and dripped through 
the branches, falling on Johnson’s face ; a thin face it was, 
and haggard, not the face of the man they had last seen at 
the tavern in jolly good-fellowship two days before. His 
hands moved gropingly a moment ; he opened his eyes and 
looked vacantly about him; they were hollow eyes and 
hungry ; he recognized no one. Dolores came up shyly, 
offering no word of sympathy, and with a moan Johnson 
closed his eyes again. 

“We must get him home as soon as possible,” Green 
said, gravely, his eyes on the face of the girl standing 
silently beside her father. “He has been without food 
since the day before yesterday. He lost his way, and fell 
in the night when he was trying to find his way back after 
hunting the cow. The moonlight made everything misty, 
and he did not notice that the path turned sharply, and he 
slipped over the ledge. He has been lying there on that 
ledge ever since too weak to make any effort to save him. 


72 


THAT GIBL OF JOHNSON'S. 


self, thereby doubtless saving himself, for the ledge would 
stand little motion. ” 

He did not add that Johnson had broken both of his 
legs in the fall, and doubtless received internal injuries 
that must prove serious if not fatal. Dolores’ eyes were 
on his, and he could not tell the whole of what might 
come. He crossed to her side and bent over her a moment, 
his eyes growing dark with sudden emotion. 

“Dolores,” he said, with swift intensity of voice, as he 
laid his hand on her firm, round arm, “do you know that 
you have saved his life ?” 

Apparently she did not heed ; her eyes were on his, and 
her face, lifted to him under the bending boughs, did not 
change in its expression of wonder. 

“Wes ready fer him,” Lodie interrupted, slowly. His 
face was immovable in its stolidity. 

When they had placed Johnson on the litter as comfort- 
ably as possible, Lodie offered his coat to Dolores in a short 
word or two and no change on his face, but the girl shook 
her head without speaking, though she gave him one of 
her rare smiles, and walked steadily down the path tangled 
in the treacherous bushes, half hidden in mist and rain, 
with Green at her side buried in thought, though his hand 
was ready to reach out for her assistance whenever it was 
needed and his face was almost sweet with a new touch 
upon it. 


THAT OIRL OF JOHNSON’S. 


73 


CHAPTER XVL 
life’s monotony. 

Dolores stood listlessly at one of the kitchen windows ; 
she was looking out at the storm, but she did not see it ; her 
ears were strained to catch the sound of voices in her 
father’s room. Earnest voices they were and full of a 
meaning she could not catch. 

Outside the storm was raging ; they had felt some of its 
power ere reaching home, but now it was howling with the 
power only a mountain storm possesses. The opposite 
mountain was shrouded in mist ; even the peak that gener- 
ally lifted its somber head was swallowed up, and the 
ghostly gray was creeping around the scattered houses of 
the settlement. The rain was falling in torrents ; it swept 
from the east across the valley, and swirled around the 
houses like a demon of fury. The wind drove it fiercely, 
lashing it hither and yon, shrieking and howling and 
moaning ; the pines on the heights above writhed and 
twisted their heavy boughs, driven by the demon wind. 

No need to water the gardens now nor use the neighbors’ 
wells ; water was plenty ; it was pouring from the sky as 
though it had overflowed ; it was streaming down the door- 
posts and drenching the- window-panes ; it formed little 
gullies in the road and rushed pell-mell down to the valley 
river. 

The road was deserted ; the men had straggled up to 
Johnson’s house when first he was brought home, but as 
soon as the messenger sent by Green brought the doctors 
from the town they ordered perfect quiet, and the men 
were sent away without being allowed to enter. Dolores 
met them at the door, and their dislike of her overcame 
their curiosity; they turned away in silence and went 
down the road to the tavern with its welcome fire, its cider, 


74 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


and comrades. The outside air was damp and raw ; they 
drew their chairs in a closer circle around the fire, and 
gossiped in tones growing constantly louder, thawed by the 
warmth and companionship about this latest event in their 
quiet lives, and by whose deed the mare was lamed. 

The women were forced to remain at home ; they gos- 
siped with their daughters or their kinsfolk around the 
great hearth fires. Their needles were busv, their spin- 
ning wheels hummed ; their lives were narrow, but there 
was work to be done as well as food for gossip. Only 
Dolores was idle. She stood at the window staring with 
unseeing eyes at the storm outside, straining her ears in 
vain to catch the hum of voices in her father’s room. 
Young Green was there, and two doctors, and a woman 
they said was a nurse. What need was there of a nurse 
she asked herself. She could nurse her father. Did they 
think she could not nurse her father ? She could watch 
him day and night ; she knew his ways better than they, 
better than any stranger cotild know them. And what 
was the judge’s son doing there ? Why should he be al- 
lowed there when she was not? He was her father; 
jmung Green had no cause to care for her father. No 
reason. 

And what were the doctors doing there ? If her father 
was only exhausted from exposure and lack of food why 
should he need two doctors ? Men had been lost on the 
mountain before; they never needed nurses when they 
were brought home ; their own women cared for them ; 
she could care for her father. Outside the wind sobbed 
drearily ; the rain swirled up against the window. Brindle 
out in her pen lowed softly and uneasily ; she was unused 
to horses, and did not like the horses that had brought the 
doctors. Dolores heard her aimlessly ; her thoughts were 
too busy to be disturbed by such sounds, and her ears were 
too used to them to heed when they were strained to 
catch other sounds. 

When her father was well enough they would send for 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’S. 


75 


him at the town ; they were only waiting for him to prove 
their suspicions. The case had been adjourned ; it was a 
pretty clear case of malice, folks said, but they were wait- 
ing for her father to prove it. No doubt when the storm 
was over they would send or come for him again. Why 
did young Green interest himself in her father ? Did he 
wish to hurry him to prove his case ? And yet he had been 
so kind to her he could not do that, he would not do that. 
Surely they would not expect him to go to-morrow, nor the 
next day ; he must rest ; they would not ask him to go yet. 

The hum of voices died away ; only the muffled sound of 
footsteps now and then on the bare floor, and the hissing of 
the kettle over the Are joined in with the sweep of the 
storm. They were there an endless time ; why were they 
so quiet ? Why should she not go in ? Or why did they 
not come out and tell her what was the matter ? Why 
could she not nurse her father ? 

The pines on the bank shivered and bent toward her, 
moaning ; the wind and the rain twisted them into gro- 
tesque shapes. The kettle ceased its hissing, its voice died 
away to a deep, quiet hum ; suddenly the water bubbled 
over on the Are with a fierce sound. She went over and 
lifted it off, setting it on one side of the hearth. The door 
of the bedroom opened, and the nurse came out. She was 
an elderly woman with a grave face. She brought several 
parcels from the town. Young Green sent her a note by 
the man who went to fetch the doctors, and she knew 
what to bring. One or two of these she opened and pre- 
pared beef and broth. She spoke quietly and pleasantly to 
Dolores, but she found her own way about the house and 
seemed to fit into everything. 

Dolores watched her; she returned to the window as 
though the fierce storm outside attracted her ; she leaned 
against the casement with listless hands and followed 
the nurse with her eyes. They werci solemn eyes and full 
of vague qu<^stioning. 

The woman went about her duties, apparently forgetting 


76 


TEAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’S. 


the girl after the first few minutes. She wore a soft gray 
dress and a large white apron ; her smooth gray hair was 
half-hidden under a clean white cap ; she wore slippers 
and her movements were almost noiseless. 

The footsteps in the room were few and light ; the occa- 
sional sound of low spoken words reached her ears, but the 
words themselevs were unintelligible. A sudden fear took 
possession of the girl. It was sharp and appalling, and she 
straightened up under it as though she had received a 
blow. It was no exhaustion from want of food and shelter 
that ailed her father ; something more than that brought 
this woman and the doctors, caused this hush of voice and 
footsteps, shut her from her father’s presence. She spoke, 
and her voice was low. The woman who had steadied her 
nerves through many worse scenes started and changed 
color, but regained her self-possession almost immediately. 
She turned quietly toward the girl. 

“You spoke. Miss Johnson?” 

“What ails my father?” 

“He will be better by and by. We could not expect him 
to recover at once. Do not be alarmed. ” 

Dolores paid no attention. She repeated her question in 
the same low yet perfectly distinct voice ; her eyes looked 
steadily at the woman. 

“ What ails my father ?” 

The nurse was annoyed. She did not like co be ques- 
tioned so pointedly; she had studied to keep ner own 
counsel and use few words. 

“Your father had a heavy fall. Miss Johnson; only the 
ledge saved him. His right leg was broken above the 
knee ; the doctors have set that now ; it will be better 
soon. ” 

Like young Green, she would not tell the full truth. 
How could she tell the girl the extent of the injuries and 
the possible end ? That one of his legs would have to be 
amputated; that his whole system was so shattered it 
would be a miracle if he lived, and though he should live 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON^ S. 


77 


he would be a cripple always ? She dared not say this ; 
she dared not look at the girl at first. 

Presently Dolores spoke again, and her voice was per- 
fectly even and slow. And in involuntary admiration the 
nurse turned toward her. Slender and stately she stood at 
the window, robed in her simple print gown, her hands 
hanging down in front of her in their old position. 

“How long before he will be well” ? 

“Impossible to tell,” the woman replied, gravely. “Such 
cases are uncertain. ” 

“But he will get well?” 

“Why not? We will take good care of him.” 

“Do you think,” Dolores’ eyes grew dark as night, “do 
you think they will send for him before he can go ? They 
are waiting for him to go to the town. Did you know— for 
him to go to prove — ” 

“I know,” the woman said, quietly, with perfect control 
over the muscles of her face. “I have heard. No, they 
will not send for him until he can go. You must not worry, 
Miss Johnson. 

Dolores turned back to the window with no further re- 
mark, and silence fell over the room save for the woman’s 
soft movements, and a hushed sound from the bedroom now 
and then. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE NURSE’S STORY. 

The doctors remained in that hushed room the whole of 
the long night through ; the nurse said that they would go 
presently, but they did not. As darkness settled down 
heavily one of them came out and spoke to the nurse ; 
Dolores could not catch his words ; it seemed to her she 
was continually striving to hear what she could not. Then 
the nurse went into the bedroom with the doctors, and the 
door was shutt 


78 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


The girl was glad in a half listlessly realizing fashion 
that night had come ; the night was a friend to her ; a near 
companion ; it wrapped her in its close clasp, soothing and 
caressing her. 

Once or twice young Green came out to speak a pleasant 
word to her of encouragement, or a message as to her 
father’s condition ; he was more quiet now, the doctors had 
given him a narcotic. Later he was sleeping quietly; 
sleep was what he needed. Before he slept he watched 
restlessly as though for some one ; doubtless it was for her, 
but the doctors thought best to keep him absolutely quiet 
and allow no one to see him for the present ; when he had 
recovered somewhat it would be well for her to see him 
and be near him, as he was used to her presence. 

“ It is too bad it is so stormy, ” he said, and there was an 
indescribable kindness in his voice as- he stood beside her 
at the window while the darkness was enveloping the 
world; “I would so like to see the stars irom your win- 
dows, Dolores. Can you see Venus above the mountains 
when it is clear, and the moon set in the young moon’s 
arms ?” 

She lifted her true eyes to his face, and a flush was 
coming into the pure, pale face. 

“There are few I can place in the heavens,” she said, 
slowly, “but those I know are like friends to me ; I have 
no friends, you know. And my mother is near me when 
the stars are in the sky. My mother is dead. You knew 
my mother is dead ?” 

“Yes,” he made answer, smiling slowly into the lifted 
face so near his own. “I would so like you to see my 
mother, Dolores, You could not fail to love her.” 

The girl shook her head. There was no deepening of 
the soft coloring of her face, no tremor of the proudly 
curved red lips, no drooping of the silken lashes over the 
dark eyes. 

“I know nothing about love,” she said, quietly. “I 
only my father and my mother’s books.” 


THAT QIBL OF JOHNSON'S, 


79 


His eyes darkened suddenly, a strange tenderness came 
over the fair, kindly face. 

“After all, there is a sadness about love ; perhaps it is as 
well, Dolores.” 

He turned swiftly from her, and crossing the room lighted 
only by the flickering fire, his figure defined in grotesque 
shapes upon the walls, he entered the room beyond, leav- 
ing her motionless at the darkened window, her eyes fol- 
lowing him. 

Presently she left the window also and crossing to a 
shelf at the other end took down the last book he had 
brought her and opened it to her favorite reading of the 
fables of the stars. Taking it over to the firelight she sat 
down on the low stool there and with the book open on her 
knees, leaned above it like a silent Cinderella, reading by 
the flickering red light on the hearth, until she forgot the 
hush of the sick-room beyond, the shadow that was upon 
her life, the strangeness of fate — everything but the world 
spread overhead for the reading of the intelligent mind, 
and the grand proof of the Creator and the creation writ- 
ten thereon. Her eyes bent over the pages were luminous, 
her cheeks flushed softly. She was out of her narrowed 
life with the infinite range of the heavens spread before 
her ; the millions and millions of miles of space carried her 
mind with the thoughts far, far above the shut in life of 
her mountain home and the stolid settlement that had no 
life but the tavern and the gossip. 

As young Green entered the bedroom the nurse was 
setting things to rights for the night ; all her movements 
were noiseless ; she smiled at him as he entered ; the two 
doctors were talking together in an undertone. 

“Take good care of her, Mrs. Allen,” he said, earnestly; 
“and see that she sleeps. She is completely worn out 
with this strain. I leave it with you to see that she is in- 
terested in things outside of this room. I will stop at the 
tavern to-night and be up early in the morning. Every- 
t;hing all right, Harry ?” 


80 


THAT GIRL 01 JOHNSON'S, 


“ I hope so, ” replied one of the doctors, gravely. “ Come 
up as early as you can, in the morning, Charlie ; this thing 
must be gotten over as soon as may be. He is as uncon- 
scious as death. It is a severe case. I only wish he had 
been stronger to-day. ” 

“Yes,” young Green said. A furrow of thought appeared 
on his forehead. He stood silent a moment, his blue eyes 
meeting the black ones of the doctor, squarely, as though 
he would see down into his very soul. His lips were ten- 
der as a woman’s under the fair mustache. 

Dr. Dunwiddie rose abruptly, and crossed over to him. 
He laid his two hands on Green’s shoulders and eyed him 
keenly. 

“My dear boy, don’t you bother your head about any- 
thing, but go straight to bed. Do you hear ? Mrs. Allen 
will attend to Miss Johnson, and Grey and I are capable of 
attending to our business for the present. Every thing 
shall go right so far as man can promise ; further than 
this ” 

It is no light thing to hold a man’s life in one’s keeping. 
These two men were good comrades and true ; their eyes 
were steady and their souls searching. 

“Take my word for it, Charlie, he’ll not move to- 
night ; he’s as quiet as a lamb. There’s no reason in the 
world why we shouldn’t sleep, every one of us,” joined in 
the other doctor. 

“No reason in the world,” added Dr. Dunwiddie, smil- 
ing. “You take life easy, if any one does, Tom.” 

“Why shouldn’t a fellow?” queried Tom, yawning 
silently. “You’re a fool to go out in this storm, Charlie.” 

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t stay here.” 

“None at all,” said Charlie, “except that I wish to 
sleep !” 

He met Dr. Dunwiddie ’s smile with one as grave as he 
passed from the room, noiselessly closing the door behind 
him. For a moment he stood behind Dolores poring over 
the book in the firelight. Her hair had slipped from it« 


TEAT OIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


81 


comb and fell to the floor in soft, shining masses ; her 
cheeks were flushed ; the long lashes drooped over the 
brilliant eyes. She neither heard nor saw him ; she was 
tracing out one of the constellations on the map before her, 
her lips were half parted as though she were smiling. The 
face of the watcher underwent many changes in the 
short minute he stood there in the flickering light and 
darkness behind her chair ; then he turned silently away 
and passed out of the room without disturbing her. He 
took down his hat and coat from one of the nails in the 
room and went 'out into the storm as though he were 
dazed by some sudden startling thought ! 

By and by, when the nurse came out of the room, Dolores 
closed her book slowly, as though with regret, and gathered 
up her hair, twisting it about her graceful head care- 
lessly. The color and fire died out of her face and eyes, as 
she arose to prepare supper. But Mrs. Allen interrupted 
her. 

“Sit still. Miss Johnson,” she said, cheerily, “and read 
your book, but not by this light ; I will fetch a candle.” 

She took down a candle from the shelf, and lighted it 
with a strip of pine wood from the fire. She pulled out 
the clean pine table noiselessly, and set it ; she cut some 
thin slices of bread and toasted them before the fire. 
When they were done to an exquisite turn, she buttered 
them deftly, and set them on a plate on the hearth to keep 
warm. She poured some of the broth, brown and savory, 
into a cup. As Dolores watched her unconsciously the 
thought took posssesion of her that it was pleasant to have 
a companion, a woman like one’s self about the house. 
She had lived her life alone, not having had such com- 
panionship she would not mourn its los.s. Was this the 
feeling one had with the love of which young Mr. Green 
spoke? Was it this sense of companionship, of rest? Was 
it good to love ? He had said when he left her that there 
was sadness in it. This feeling she had in the presence of 
the nurse could not be that. When the tea and toast were 


82 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON^ 8. 


ready the nurse drew up the table and placed it beside the 
fire, placing a chair for her. 

“Come, child,” she said, gently. 

The professional tone had left her voice utterly ; the girl 
felt a sudden rush of tears that burned her eyelids. They 
were the first she had shed in her life so far as she remem- 
bered. She was almost frightened at herself as she arose 
to obey the kindly invitation. 

“It’s a dreary night,” the nurse said, cheerfully, taking 
no special notice of the girl apparently. “ The fire brightens 
one like a merry face. ” 

She poured out two cups of the tea and placed slices of 
the toast on a plate to carry into the bedroom when she saw 
the girl was slowly eating what had been placed before 
her. 

“I am glad when I can have a fire,” she said, when she 
returned. “ I always have a fire on stormy days if it is 
possible. My girl calls me Cinderella ; I will tell you about 
my girl ; I call her my sweetheart, her heart is so sweet. 
She has no mother. ” 

Dolores had never known her mother save by what was 
told of her, and by stray scraps of delicate handwriting on 
the margins of her books ; these latter she cherished as 
belonging solely to herself ; no one else ever saw them ex- 
cepting Betsy Glenn. They showed her mother’s char- 
acter, and were as spoken words to her ; her mother was 
very near to her at times with these words before her. 


that girl of JOHNSON'S, 


83 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE nurse’s story CONTINUED. 

“ She is an invalid,” the mellow voice went on ; “ she has 
been an invalid for six years, and I have been with her 
during that time. She is a gentle patient ; they say she is 
like her mother, who died when Dora was a child. Dora 
is eighteen now, and I wish you could see her. She is like 
a picture ; sometimes I believe I love her as a lover 
would.” 

Dolores knew nothing of love or lovers, but she listened 
quietly. Perhaps this woman would tell her what love 
was. 

“Dora has gray eyes,” the nurse continued. Her own 
eyes were sharp and quick to note every change in the 
gravely attentive face opposite. “ They are neither hazel 
eyes, nor bluish gray, as many are, but simply and purely 
gray — the gray that turns to black with emotion. Her 
hair is golden brown, soft as silk and long ; arranging it 
is one of my greatest pleasures. She has a beautiful home 
in New York, and everything heart could wish to make 
her happy ; her father considers her his richest possession, 
and he has many possessions. 

“ But Dora has consumption, and a short time ago her 
physician ordered for her a thorough change of air and 
recommended the mountains. When she spoke of the 
south he said it was an excellent plan, and that she should 
come at once. Her father lived here when he was a child 
and has a brother living here — or he supposed he was 
living here ; he had not seen or heard from him since he 
started out at twelve years old to make his way in the 
world, leaving this brother the homestead, the patch of 
garden and the shop. He took nothing with him but the 
clothes he had on his back, and little enough that was. 


84 


THAT QIBL OF JOHNSON^ 8. 


He worked his way to New York, now at this thing, now 
at that ; walking whenever he could not ride ; sleeping in 
sheds or barns ; helping the farmers when he could, get- 
ting a lift in some huckster’s cart or with some good- 
natured farmer. His life is a marvel to me, and Dora is 
never tired of listening to him when he tells of his life. 
He is a rich man now with his word as good as his bond ; 
my girl is proud of her father, as well she may be. 

“As to his brother, he has not forgotten him, but he 
lost trace of him ; he leads a busy life with little time for 
hunting anybody’s brother. Long ago, when he began to 
succeed, he wrote to his brother offering to help him along 
if he cared to join him, but the letter was returned un- 
opened. His brother could neither read nor write, and 
had no correspondence, and therefore had never called for 
the letter, or else was dead. Dora’s father got a good, solid 
education in his contact with the world. 

“ As to Dora, she has had all the teachers and masters 
necessary to an excellent education ; she is an exquisite 
musician ; her touch on the piano is like magic, and her 
voice is soft aud sweet, bnt she does not sing now. Her 
singing used to be her father’s delight.” 

A shadow fell over the face of the nurse, and she was 
silent for a moment, looking into the fire with a far away 
expression on her face. 

The bedroom door opened noiselessly, and she turned 
calmly in answer to Dr. Dunwiddie’s summons, every trace 
of emotion gone. She left the room for a few minutes, and 
when she returned her vioce and manner were quiet, as 
usual. 

“Dora draws and paints very well,” she said, resuming 
her seat and her story ; “ she teaches several children from 
the mission school. She says she wishes to fit them to 
earn their own living in an honorable way. She has a 
sewing class, too, and gives free music lessons to some 
poor children. None of her time is idled ; she has her 
father’s ambitious spirit, and her life is full of work in 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 85 

spite of the fact that this disease is slowly eating her life 
away. 

“ Each one of the children loves her ; she sometimes tells 
me, laughing, that she has so many blessings she cannot 
count them. To hear her talk one would never imagine 
the nights I have held her up in my arms that she might 
breathe while she coughed her beautiful life away. ” 

Dolores leaned forward with luminous eyes ; for the 
time she forgot her father, and the dread waiting for 
the men to come to prove the malice prepense in the 
laming of the mare. The world of which the woman told 
her was outside of her world ; it was the world of her 
dreams. This girl — she had never before heard of such ; 
even her ideal mother had never been like this, and her 
mother was the height of her ideal. 

Silence reigned in the room for a few minutes ; the nurse 
arose and drew the little half curtains across the windows. 
The storm had increased, and the wind shook the little 
house to its foundations, the rain swirling against the 
panes in an eerie fashion. When all ivas arranged for the 
night, even to preparing a bed in the corner on the settle, 
Mrs. Allen drew her chair up to the fire again, and re- 
sumed her story. Dolores’ face was troubled — her thoughts 
had returned to her father, to young Green and his efforts 
to save her father somehow mixed with his words lately 
uttered, of love and its sadness ; and of the trial that was 
to come off as soon as her father was able to go to prove — 
She started at sound of the nurse’s voice and grew white 
to the lips. This did not escape the watchful eyes of the 
nurse. There was little that did escape her watchful eyes. 

“ Dora’s father did not know whether or not his brother 
was living,” she went on, tranquilly, never showing by 
word or sign that she had noticed any change in the 
girl. “That the letter had been returned uncalled for, 
went to prove that he might be dead ; but he knew that 
his brother had no friends outside of the settlement and 
was not in the habit of receiving letters. That he could 


86 


■j ■-:? 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


neither read nor write still left it possible that he was 
living, and when Dora made known her wish to come here, 
to see her father’s old home, arrangements were made at 
once. We arrived in the town over the mountain yester- 
day. They are stopping at Judge Green’s for the present 
and Dora sent me here at once when Mr. Charlie wrote for 
help. She said it was one of God’s providences ; that he 
had arranged things for us and we were only to obey. ” 

The interest died out of Dolores’ eyes. She knew noth- 
ing about God or his providences ; she had never heard of 
either except as a wandering preacher stopped at the settle- 
ment on his way through the mountains, and was jeered at 
by the men and listened to by only a handful of women. 
Her opinion was formed from these things, and a true 
Christian character was an unknown thing to her. Young 
Green’s act was a marvel to her. Her father was nothing 
to him, yet he had been as thoughtful of him as though he 
were his own. The men of the settlement were willing to 
help their comrades when necessity called for it, but to go 
out of their way for some one in whom they had no interest 
was not in them. They lived their narrow lives and desired 
nothing better. 

The nurse leaned back so that her face was in shadow, 
but so that the girl’s face was full in her sight. 

“ Dora and her father meant to drive over here to-day, 
but the storm prevented, and then the news of your 
father’s fall reached them. Dora had been in the town 
but a day, yet she had found out a great deal that she 
wished to know. Every one in the town has heard of your 
father, and any one could tell her of him because of the 
trial that was to come olf, and which was postponed on 
account of waiting for evidence from him. Of you no one 
knew much excepting Mr. Charlie. He told my girl over 
and over what he knew about you ; she never tired of 
hearing and planned such pleasant things for you and your 
father, and knows she will love you at once. ” 

Dolores’ face was full of wonder. That any one heard of 


THAT OIRL OF JOHKSON’S. 


87 


or cared to hear of her was strange enough, but that Dora, 
the beautiful, golden-haired, gray-eyed girl from the midst 
of the marvelous world of her dreams should love her 
or wish to love her was beyond her comprehension. She 
twisted her slim fingers together in her lap, her large 
brown eyes fixed steadfastly on the calm face in the 
shadows, searching for a knowledge of this that had never 
yet come to her life. She was perfectly quiet, and asked 
no questions, and a careless observer might have said that 
she did not care and had not been interested in the conver 
sation. 

“Do you not wonder, child,” the nurse said, slowly^ 
“ why my girl is so interested in you ? Have you never 
thought of this uncle of yours of whom you have never 
heard or seen, or wondered that he never came, or let your 
father know he was living ?” 

Dolores’ voice was unmoved, her eyes still gravely ques- 
tioning. 

“Yes,” she replied, “I think if he is living he is happy in 
his life, and prefers to leave us out. I do not blame him ; 
no one here in the settlement blames him ; they say he is 
the only one worth anything. I am like my father, only 
worse.” 

There was not a trace of bitterness in her voice ; it was 
merely a fact of which every one knew. The nurse made 
a quick movement as of indignation. The girl was pro- 
vokingly stupid. When she spoke, however, her vioce was 
gentle, as usual. 

“ Your father is not like his brother, Dolores ; your father 
prefers a quiet life and all the old things about him. Your 
uncle would feel chained in by the towering mountains 
and the quiet. You will not blame him when you see him, 
and Dora will win your heart at once, as you have already 
won hers. As soon as the storm is over they will come. 
Dora’s father is your uncle, Dolores, and they came here 
on purpose to find you.” 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’S. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

ITS EFFECT. 

A flush crept into Dolores’ face, then died out, leaving 
her deadly white. She leaned hard back in her chair, 
motionless, dumb, as one who has received a blow ; her 
eyes were wide and full of terror, her lips apart. The room 
grew dark around - her ; the roar of the storm died away — 
everything died away save the dim horror in her heart 
and an echo that grew and grew until the air throbbed and 
filled her ears deafeningly. What would Dora say and 
think if she knew — and of course she knew. Did not every 
one know? No wonder her father’s brother had dropped 
them ; she did not blame him. Her ears were ringing with 
the words that echoed around her ; she did not hear the 
nurse Avho was speaking ; she heard nothing save the words 
that filled the room and pulsed in her ears and her blood. 

She endeavored to speak, to cry out, to struggle with 
them, but she was as one truck dumb and motionless with 
the dread words thundering in her ears weirdly their 
terrible meaning : 

“ Every one has heard of your father, and could tell her 
of him because of the trial that was to come off — the trial — ^ 
trial — your father — trial — ” 

“Child,” the voice of the nurse sounded leagues away, 
scarcely distinguishable in the roar of words around her. 
“ Child, what is the matter ? Why do you say nothing ? 
Are you not glad to know it ?” 

“ Glad to know it— glad to know it — father— trial— know 
it — know it — ” 

The girl roused against the terror that vras holding her 
down. She sat erect, white faced, but with a quiet dignity 
that hid the tumult within. She lifted one hand and 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


89 


pushed back the stray soft curls from her forehead in a 
dazed fashion. 

“ Surely you have no hard feeling toward your uncle be- 
cause he has not come to your father before. You cannot 
blame him. His is not like your father’s life. He is a 
busy man and full of work from day to day ; he has not 
the time that your father has. Besides, did your father 
ever try to learn of his brother or to hold to him in any 
way? You should be just, Dolores— just, and not judge 
harshly. ” 

“ His life is not like your father’s life— judge harshly— 
judge harshly — ” 

“Your father could have been such another man as his 
brother had he so chosen ; one can be almost anything one 
strives and desires to be. Your father chose his life and 
your uncle chose his ; they are living their chosen lives. 
You cannot blame your uncle for your father’s choice any 
more than you can blame your father for your uncle’s 
choice. ” 

There was a touch of indignation in the voice of the 
nurse. The girl actually had no sense ; she was unjust and 
ungrateful. Mr. Charlie had said that she possessed more 
sense than the average and S, depth of character that was 
wonderful considering her life ; that it was a pleasure 
simply to watch her face light and her eyes darken, grow- 
ing luminous as she listened when he talked to her of the 
heavens and the star worlds, while her quiet hands and 
slow dignity were a study. He must have seen her under 
more favorable circumstances, she thought, or else he was 
somewhat blind as to her stupidity ; to her the girl was 
simply stupid, with a disagreeable way of staring at one 
and asking unexpected questions. At first she was inter- 
ested in her because of Dora’s claim upon her, but now — 

It may be her opinion was partly due to the fact that 
Dolores seemed so little interested in Dora. Almost any 
girl would be glad of the chances and changes that must 
come from knowing Dora and her father ; and it may be 


90 


TEAT GIRL OF JOEESON'S. 


also that she was somewhat prejudiced by what she had 
heard over in the town about the girl and her father from 
persons not so kindly disposed as was Mr. Charlie. Mrs. 
Allen was kind-hearted enough, but she had seen a good 
deal of the world and its people, and being in a worldly 
world she failed to undertsand the girl whose life was 
bound in by the steadfast mountains whose majesty and 
mystery had influenced her whole thought and life, and 
whose world was a world of dreams and books, whose 
thoughts she was incapable of fathoming or understand- 
ing, woman of the world and mistress of character as she 
prided herself on being. 

“You cannot blame your uncle for your father’s choice 
— your father’s choice — ” 

The words rang over and over, around, above and below, 
out of which the half scornful voice sounded far away. 

“ It seems to me you should be glad of your good fortune, 
Miss Johnson. There is many a girl whom I know would 
jump at the chance now open to you, and not one of them 
has been brought up in this way. ” 

Dolores’ ears were growing sharper to hear ; the words 
sounded cuttingly clear through the darkness and tumult 
around her ; she moved her hands gropingly a moment as 
one who has been stunned and is slowly recovering con- 
sciousness. 

“ Dora will be so disappointed ; she has thought and 
talked of nothing but her plans for you. She will take you 
away from here ; you shall have all the books and masters 
you can desire, and learn the habits of polite society under 
Dora’s teaching; Dora is a perfect lady and a charming 
conversationalist; she will soon change you. .You will 
have all the advantages a girl could have, and it will be 
your own fault if you do not improve them. This would be 
the best time, too, when your father needs perfect rest 
and few around him. No doubt he will be glad for this 
chance for you, if you are not for yourself.” 

Dolores sat up with a dignity of bearing that silenced 


THAT GIBL OF JOHNSON'S, 


91 


further words on the woman’s lips ; she was very still and 
white, but her eyes were grave and beautiful as she asked, 
half hesitatingly, as though the wonder of it were hard to 
understand, her low voice filling the low-ceiled, quiet room. 

“Do you think,” she said— “does anyone think that I 
would leave 'my father?” 

The nurse laughed softly, with a touch of scorn in her 
voice. 

“Do you think it would break his heart, Miss Johnson?” 

Dolores was too deeply in earnest to be moved by the 
scornful words ; afterward the words and tone came back 
to her distinctly. At the time they touched her lightly in 
the great wonder that filled her mind that any one could 
think she would leave her father. The darkness had fallen 
away from her suddenly ; the eerie echoes had died for the 
time ; she sat erect and graceful with the firelight flooding 
her white face and listless hands. 

“ I would not leave my father, ” she said, solemnly, her 
large, steadfast eyes fixed disconcertingly on the quiet face 
opposite, “ I would not leave my father — never — while he 
lives — not for any one. ” 

“ You may change your mind,” the nurse said, lightly, 
rising to prepare for the night. Of course the girl would 
change her mind ; these bits of the heroic were like 
draughts of an elixir to the young. But after all, they 
amounted to nothing. Life was too practical, too every- 
day, too conventional for that. Perhaps she had been harsh 
to her, and Dora would not like that. Dora was always so 
tender of every one, even such an absurd creature as this 
girl of Johnson’s. She touched the girl’s hair softly as 
Dora could have done, caressing the stray curls on the 
smooth, broad brow pityingly. 

“Go to bed, child,” she said. “We’ll not talk any more 
about that now ; it is time you were getting your beauty 
sleep ere the clock strikes twelve.” 

“I would not leave my father,” Dolores said, solemnly, 


92 


THAT OIRL 01 JOHNSON'S, 


her eyes raised to the kindly face above her, “ I would not 
leave my father — ever — while he lives — not for any one. ” 


CHAPTER XX. 

AROUND THE TAVERN FIRE. 

“Who’d a-thought,” said Jones, meditatively, tipping 
his chair back and stretching his feet pretty well toward 
the smoky mantel. “Who’d a-thought thet big Johnsing 
wi’ sinews like oak ’d ever a kem ter thes ?” 

It was more the statement of a fact than a question ; he 
said it to free his mind and start the ball of conversation 
rolling. That every one thought as he did on this sujbect 
was a matter of course. He looked around on them ap- 
provingly as though to impress them with the fact that he 
was with them there. They might disagree a trifle now 
and then about some things, but in the vital matter just 
come up for consideration, he was with them heartily, and 
would encourage them with his approval. He expected no 
immediate remark in answer to his, and expectorated 
thoughtfully with perfect deliberation after nodding his 
grizzly head with the weight of his approval upon it. 

His wife and daughter were in the back room, and the 
occasional sound of their voices disturbed the roar of the 
storm and the sobbing of the pines outside. His wife and 
daughter never came in the outer room of an evening ; he 
was wise and diplomatic in that ; he knew it and prided 
himself on having more tact than his guests generally, 
though Jones was not a selflsh or bad man at heart.. 

He expectorated again more thoughtfully, and watched 
the smoke from the pipes of his comrades curl round and 
round in rings up toward the smoky, low ceiling. He was 
comfortable and complacent ; he had had his say and 
broken the ice for the others ; he would now hear them 
with the calm majesty a monarch might feel in his council 
chamber. When Lodie spoke he started, a trifle sur- 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 


93 


prised. He had not expected any remark directly to the 
point, and perhaps preferred none such should be offered 
and he was also unprepared for reply. 

“Et’s better so,” said Lodie, gravely, changing his left 
leg over the right ; “ et’s better so than fer him ter hev run 
inter hidin’.” 

A silence fell over them all ; each thought the same ; in 
fact they thought considerably beyond that, but not one of 
them dared say what was in his mind. Perhaps each one 
thought the other would speak, or that they had not the 
same notion regarding the matter. It was rather an ugly 
thought that possessed them, and no one cared to give ut- 
terance to it for fear of what the others might think should 
they not believe the same of the man now lying low and 
unable to defend himself. 

“ Reyther onsatisfact’ry ans’rs they giv us when we went 
ter ask ’bout hem,” said big Tom Smith, dissatisfiedly, as 
he pushed the cat from the hearth with his foot and drew 
his chair up nearer the fire. “We’s did et fer feelin’ 
fren’ly, an’ theys might a’ treated us decent.” 

“Ther jedge’s son were thar,” said another big, stout 
man, with a malicious snort of laughter. “Ther jedge’s 
son were thar, an’ theys were too big ter speak ter sech 
common folks as we uns. What hev we ter do with they 
uns sence ther jedge’s son hev took up Johnsing an’ his 
gal.” 

A loud burst of laughter drowned the sobbing of the 
storm, Lodie alone sat quite unmoved, staring gravely into 
the crackling fire. 

“ An’ theys bringed two doctors from ther town,” Tom 
Smith added, with a gusty catching of his breath ; “an’ a 
woman ter tend him. Theys takin’ precious good care o’ 
him, seems ter me, fer a feller what’s got a summons ter 
court ’bout lamin’ a mare. Ef he were somethin’ ’sides 
shef’less Johnsing ’twouldn’t seem so outlandish, but ter 
cuddle him up with his big sinews—” 

“An’ a woman, too,” another fellow broke in, starting 


94 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


afresh the coarse laughter that filled the long, low room. 
Even the cat shrank from it into the back room with the 
women. 

“Look a-hyar,” Lodie slowly interrupted, changing his 
right leg over the left. “ Look a-hyar, men, mebby ’t ain’t 
sech a good joke as ye seem ter thenk with yer larfin’ an’ 
yer jokin’. When I helped with Johnsing tell ther doctors 
kem, I could see plain thet ’t warn’t no common theng 
hed hap’d Johnsing. Thar he were wuth his two legs 
broke an’ his arms, an’ covered with bruises an’ mebby no 
end o’ broke bones ; an’ I says ter mysel’ thet ’t warn’t no 
common theng he’d hap’d Johnsing. An’ when ther doc- 
tors kem theys sed — I asked ther jedge’s son as I were 
cornin’ out, an’ he telled me — theys sed Johnsing ain’t long 
ter live, an’ thet ’t would be a mericle ef he even live a 
week. ’Tain’t no common theng, an’ no jokin’ matter, 
an’ ye’d best stop yer larfin’. How’d ye like et ef ’t were 
one o’ ye? An’ thar were Johnsing’s gal a standin’ et ther 
winder starin’ out et ther rain, jes’es she’d stood ever sence 
we bringed her fey ther home, an’ she’s never moved or 
spoke sence. An’ I b’lieve she’s standin’ thar yet with her 
arms a-hangin’ down an’ her face white as a ha’nt. Stop 
yer larfin, men ; ’tain’t no larfin’ matter — thes thet hev 
hap’d Johnsing.” 

“Hev ther gal stole yer hyart fro’ ye, Lodie?” asked one 
of the men, again starting the rough laughter. “She’s a 
sweet gal, Jim, an’ ye’re welcome ter her ef ye ken get her 
frum ther jedge’s son. But ye’ll hev ter be lively, man. 
’Tain’t ev’ry gal kin get ther son o’ a jedge, an’ ye’d best 
put yer best foot forrard as soon as may be. ” 

“Look a-hyar, man” — there was a wrathful gleam in the 
big fellow’s black eyes as he arose to his feet in all his 
height of six feet three — “ et makes no diff ’rence what ye 
say ter me or ’bout me, but ther next one what speaks thet 
gal’s name like thet’ll be laid outen fiatter’n ever Johnsing 
were, an’ he’ll never git up agen. How’d ye like one o’ 
us ter say ther same o’ yer darter, Hiram Sadler ?” 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


95 


“ Hi, hi !” the man exclaimed, with another burst of 
laughter not so loud nor so long as before. “ Hi, hi ! 
hyar’s kem a champ’on fighter fer thet gal o’ Johnsing’s 
sure’s ye live, Jones. Let’s hev a drink outen et, ter drive 
all ill feelin’ off. I meant no harm ter ye, Lodie, nor ther 
gal neither.” 

And the big man looked down on the speaker with steady 
eyes as he answered : 

“ Say what ye like ’bout me an’ ter me, Sadler, but ther 
firs’ sech word ’bout thet gal o’ Johnsi*^g’s from any o’ 
ye’ll be yer last.” 

And they knew he meant what he said. 


96 


THAT QIBL OF JOHNSON'S, 


CHAPTER XXI. 

WHILE THE FIRE LEAPED AND THE STORM ROARED. 

“ I heard reyhter a strange story ower yander in ther 
town thes mornm’ when I went fer ther docters,” Tom 
Smith said, presently, setting down his mug of cider and 
wiping off his bearded lips with the back of his hand. The 
cider was strong, and he smacked his lips with satisfaction 
and tipped his chair back against the side of the fire-place. 
“A strange story an’ reyther more’n I think Johnsing de- 
serves. ” 

“ He hev more’n he deserves now,” Sadler said, with a 
leer at Lodie. 

“But the story, Tom,” Jones interposed, to prevent fur- 
ther unpleasantness. “ Et’s jest ther night fer a story with 
ther storm a-ragin’ an’ ther fire a-leapin’ like all possessed. 
Let’s hev et et once.” 

The empty mugs were set back on the table and the men 
drew their chairs in a closer circle in front of the fire with 
a faint show of interest on their sluggish faces. 

“Et’s ’bout Johnsing, of course,” Smith said, solemnly. 
“Et all ’pears ter be ’bout Johnsing. A shef’less, no ’count 
critter ennyhow.” 

“Never mind ’bout thet,” Jones said, seeing Lodie turn 
his big black eyes from the fire to the face of the speaker. 
“ J ohnsing is havin’ all he ken well carry’ thout our sayin’ 
hyard thengs ’bout hem. Let’s hev yer story, Tom.” 

“I ain’t meanin’ nothin’ hyard ’bout hem,” Smith pro- 
tested, doggedly. “Yer knows, an’ wes all ken tell’t thet 
Johnsing is shef’less an’ no ’count. He kyan’t seem ter 
help et, but et’s true, cii’ jest now there’s pretty hyard 
thengs ’gainst hem ower in ther town yander, special as 
he warn’t fer ther trial when he had a summons—” 

“How could he be on time fer ther trial ?” Jones inter- 


TEAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


97 


rupted. J ones was the peacemaker in the settlement. His 
tavern was a center of attraction at all times, and he kept 
all men as far as was in his power at peace with each other. 
There was scarcely ever a quarrel at Jones’. Johnson’s 
words in regard to Dolores and young Green were the last 
words that had passed there until to-night. 

“ How could he be on time fer ther trial,” Jones repeated, 
“when he were lyin’ in one o’ ther chasms ower yander on 
ther other mounting with his legs broke an’ almost dead ? 
But go on with yer story, Tom. Wes a- waitin’.” 

“ What ef et were done a-purpose ?” muttered Sadler, 
under his breath, but Jones moved his chair heavily on the 
bare floor to drown the words. 

“Well, when I was done seein’ ther docters an’ ther 
wimmen,” Smith continued, “et ther judge’s house, what 
young Green sent me ter see, I went ower ter Scrubb’s on 
ther corner opp’sit’ ther court-house where some o’ ther 
fellers was. When I telled ’em what had hap’d Johnsing 
an’ wes got a talkin’ ’bout him as was nat’ral — ’bout his 
bein’ a shif’less, no-’count critter — ” 

For once Jones lost his temper. He brought his fist 
heavily down on his knee as he said with a look and in a 
tone that the other obeyed : 

“Giv us ther story straight, Tom, with none o’ yer 
strayin’ gossip.” 

“Well,” Tom said, and his eyes fell under the angry 
flash in the other’s eyes. “Well, as I was a sayin’, one o’ 
ther men thar got ter talkin’ pretty free ’bout ther trial 
an’ ther lamin’ an ’ther hull b’isness, an’ one o’ ther others 
sed ter him thet he’d best keep a civil tongue in his head 
’bout thet Johnsing an’ his gal, fer et seems thet Lem 
Johnsing— him thet left hyar many year ago— he v kem 
back ter see his brother, an’ has been askin’ news o’ him, 
an’ is a-findin’ out all he ken ’bout him, an’ special ’bout 
thet gal o’ hisn. Et seems he hev got his darter with him 
— she looks like a bit o’ candle or plarster, she bein’ so 
white lookin’ but powerful pretty other ways— an’ she 


98 


THAT GIKL OF 


hev took a farncy ter thet gal o’ Johnsing’s from ther first 
whats he hev heard all from ther jedge’s son. An’ et’s 
kem out thet thyes goin’ ter kerry her ’way up No’th ter 
ther big city when theys go, an’ eddicate her an’ make a 
lady o’ her. Think o’ thet. An’ et’s thet gal o’ Johnsing’s 
what hev got as little sense as she ken manage ter git ’long 
with. An’ Lem — him as ust ter liv’ hyar many year ago — 
makin’ ’rangements ter hev Johnsing start in ther big 
smithy ower in ther town as soon as he ken git ’bout ’gen. 
He hev a heap o’ money, they says ower yonder, an’ he 
an’ ther jedge’s struck up a powerful fr’endship thet may, 
they ’lowed, mebby prove o’ benefit ter Johnsing in many 
ways, but most special in a way ’t wes all know. An’ 
theys goin’ ter hev Johnsing moved ter ther town ower 
thar as soon as he ken be, so’t he ken hev thengs high- 
toned like, suitable fer ther brother o’ Lem Johnsing o’ 
New York — an’ him sech a shif’less, no-’count critter, an’ 
ther gal o’ his even worse, ef thet’s poss’ble — ter hev sech 
luck, when hyar’s plenty o’ gals with more sense then she, 
left ter shift fer theirselves. 

“ Thengs air cornin’ hyard when honest folks is counted 
nothin’ an’ shef’less, no ’count folks get ther best, an’ 
what theys never earn. I ain’t got no hyard feelin’ toward 
Johnsing. but et do seem as though he warnt no use in 
ther world no how. Thar’s his smithy goin’ ter wrack an’ 
ruin ’cause he ain’t got spunk ’nough ter make business 
grow, an’ ef ’twarn’t fer his brother a-kemmin’ now, theys 
be in a tight pull, ’pears ter me. Ther gal hain’t got no 
sense, an’ they’d starve while Johnsing were gettin’ well, 
ef ’t depended on her. Some folks do hev luck when 
hones’ folks has ter sheft fer theirselves.” 

“Et ’pears queer how thengs kem round,” Sadler said, 
meditatively, “but Lem Johnsing al’ays did hev more grit 
’n most of ’em. Theys a shef’less, no-’count set ennyhow, 
’ceptin’ him, an’ ther gal worse ’n most.” 

Lodie’s eyes left the fire and turned full upon the face of 
the speaker. He was naturally a peaceable man, but were 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


99 


they trying to torment him to put his threat of vengeance 
to the test? He shifted his left leg over his right, and set 
his chair down hard and square upon the floor. 

Jones was growing uneasy, for well he knew Lodie’s 
easy going manner covered a sturdy soul. He knew, too, 
that Lodie was a man of his word, and when his mind was 
once made up it was not to be changed. 

A sudden hush fell on them all. 

“Look a-hyar, Sadler,” Lodie said, slowly— Dolores could 
not have spoken slower. “ Et’s bein’ worse’n ther beastie 
ter hit a man when he’s down, special when yer know he 
kyan’t live long ter bother nobody. Ef theys get hem ower 
ter ther town alive et’ll be more’n I reckon. An’ more’n 
thet, he may be dead or a-dyin’ thes minnet while wes 
what call ourselves his fr’ends be talkin’ o’ him names an’ 
sayin’ onkind thengs ’bout hem. Hem an’ his gal has 
’nough ter thenk of ’thout we uns heapin’ on her an’ him 
a lot o’ hyard thengs ’t ain’t all true or kind. How’d ye 
like ther same said ’bout ye, or yer gal, Sadler?” 

The fire died down on the hearth until only a glowing 
heap of ashes remained. The rain and wind sobbed outside 
at the doors and windows, swaying the creaking sign at 
the door-post. Suddenly the low door was thrown open, 
letting in a gust of hoarse east wind and showers of rain 
and sleet, and out of this, like a wreath of the stoi-m, tall, 
grave-faced, drenched to the skin, young Green stood in 
their midst. 


100 


THA T GIRL OF J OH XSON'S. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

WHILE THE EMBERS BURNED LOW. 

He closed the door and advanced toward the fire, remov- 
ing his hat as he did so. 

Jones arose at once. Jones was always ready for busi- 
ness ; the judge’s son would pay well, no doubt ; he should 
have the best in the house. The other men retained their 
positions and regarded the new-comer with no friendly 
eyes. They did not like young Green. Their lives and 
minds were narrow, and they disliked anything beyond 
their range of thought. The pleasant faced 3’oung fellow 
with the frank smile and ready word was out of their 
world ; they would not admit him therein until such time 
as he should be px-oven worthy. 

“A powerful bad storm, jedge,” said Jones, good- 
naturedly. “ Kem right up hyar by ther fire, an’ get ye 
diy. A powerful bad storm, an’ ye’re sopped to ther skin.” 

“Yes,” Green said, pleasantly, quick to note the sullen 
aspect of the men around the fire, wreathed in their tobacco 
smoke. “ It’s a night to make one glad of fire and shelter. 
Have you a place for me to-night, Jones?” 

“Sartain, jedge. Wes al’ays a place fer ye an’ a plate 
an’ mug. Ye shall hev a smokin’ supper ter sort o’ 
straighten ye out, an’ ye’ll take off yer thengs an’ hev ’em 
dried. Mariar an’ Cinthy’s settin’ doin’ nothin’, an’ they’ll 
spur round an’ fix ye up. Hyar’s a mug first ter brace 
ye. Et’s a powerful bad night is this.” 

“Thank you,” Green said. “ You’re a good-hearted host, 
Jones. It is pleasant to feel one is so heartily welcome.” 

He drew up the chair Jones placed for him, merely notic 
ing the men in the simplest manner. They made room for 
him sullenly enough, and Lodie offered to change places 
with him. He was closer the wall and more comfortable 


THAT GIBL OF JOHNSON'S. 


101 


than the others. They generally gave place to Lodie. He 
was the slowest and most awkward of movement and 
voice, but they had a rough respect for him more than for 
the others. Smith even offered to refill Green’s mug, but 
found it untouched. They were sluggish and dogged in 
their likes and dislikes, but they accepted his sharp rebuke 
so pleasantly uttered when they would have taken it from 
no other man, even though they did not like him. 

‘‘How is Johnsing now, jedge?” Lodie asked, slowly. 
He was privileged to ask ; was he not one of those who 
rescued the man ? 

“Unconscious,” Green replied, gravely. “The doctors 
dare not leave him for a moment. They drugged him to 
keep him asleep if possible through the night, for should 
he grow restless and feverish nothing can be done for him. 
They will take turns in watching him in case the effect of 
the drug wears off and he should rouse. He is in a critical 
state, and the least movement might prove fatal.” 

“ Hev theys sot his broke bones, jedge ?” Sadler asked, 
respectfully. 

They had gotten over their first feeling of resentment 
and stiffness at his entrance among them, and were willing 
to talk, listening with stolid interest to the fair-haired 
young man with the clear eyes and frank face who knew 
so well how to take them. 

“Yes,” Green replied, stretching his wet feet toward the 
fire and enjoying its warmth and rest after the dreary day. 
“ They have set his right leg and his arm, but his left leg 
will have to be amputated near the hip. ” 

A silence fell over them. A sort of av/ed silence it was, 
at thought of all this meant. And it was the same man 
who stood in their midst but three daj^s before, powerful of 
muscle, with cords like an oak, vowing vengeance upon 
this young man who had saved his life. 

The women in the inner room were getting supper ; they 
were heavy of step and slow of movement, but there was a 
homely sound about it that soothed the weary man. The 


102 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


fragrance of frying eggs and bacon and coffee came 
through the- half open door. The young man’s appetite was 
sharpened by the smell ; he had eaten nothing since morn- 
ing, and he smiled half pityingly to himself to think how 
closely comedy and tragedy are allied. 

But the men were waiting for his story, and he proceeded 
in his pleasant voice so unlike their rough manner of 
speech. 

“ The leg should have been amputated at once, for it was 
in a terrible condition, but the doctors dared not do it ; in 
his weak state it might prove fatal. To-morrow they hope 
to do it. His daughter knows nothing of his critical condi • 
tion, and they wish her not to know. The waiting and 
suspense have told much on her already, and she must 
have no more excitement at present. We hope that Mrs. 
Allen, the nurse, will bring her around all right. ” 

“An’ he’s goin’ ter lose his leg?” Lodie asked, slowly. 
“ Et’s goin’ ter be reyther hyard on ther gal as well as 
Johnsing, ’pears ter me. Who’ll take care of ’em, I’d like 
ter know ?” 

“They’ll be taken care of,” young Green replied, quietly, 
a touch of color in his face to hear these rough men speak- 
ing of these things in regard to such a woman as Dolores 
Johnson. “ But it is doubtful about Johnson having to be 
taken care of many days. ” 

The color tinging his face was not lost on the men. Their 
eyes were eloquent as they watched him. 

Mrs. Jones came to the door and spoke to him. His sup- 
per was ready if he cared to have it then. 

As he arose to obey the summons Tom Smith asked, 
gruffly, it might be out of bravado to hide his real feelings : 

“Ef Johnsing dies what ’bout ther trial ower yander, 
jedge?” 

Green faced him with a look the men never forgot, as he 
replied, sharply : 

“ What is a mare’s life to that of a man. Smith? You had 
best let that matter drop till this is settled.” 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON S. 


103 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

BACON AND EGGS. 

Dolores slept, not because of young Green’s wish that 
she should sleep, but because she was worn out from watch - 
ing and anxiety, and fell into a dreamless slumber almost 
as soon as her head touched the pillow ; and it was broad 
daylight when she again woke to every-day life. 

A dreary day it was ; above the half curtain of her win- 
dow the rain swirled in mad eddies, and dashed and 
splashed and ran wild races down the tiny panes. The 
wind moaned drearily through the pines and around the 
corners, breaking into gusty fits of fury now and then at 
the windows and doors. Out in her pen Brindle lowed 
lonesomely, and the cocks paused in their draggled strut- 
ting to crow defiance to the gray world. 

Dolores opened her eyes slowly and looked out at the 
new day. Gradually, one by one, the events of the past 
few days came to her mind, and she lay still, letting them 
come, her mind too much exhausted to fight against them, 
so that they filed silently as the tall pines before her. 
When she reached the present she aroused herself ; she 
pushed back the coverings gravely and arose. Her long, 
soft hair fell in shining strands to her knees. It formed a 
vail about her, out of which her pure, pale face looked 
like an old portrait, colorless, save for the straight red line 
of her lips. 

She crossed the tiny room to the window and drew aside 
one corner of the curtain to look out at the rain ; she 
pushed her hair back from her face as though it annoyed 
her ; her eyes were solemn and beautiful. Out in the shed 
Brindle was lowing lonesomely. Her voice roused Dolores, 
and she quickened her movements, combing out her hair 
and twisting it in a knot at the back of her head. It wa9 


104 


THAT OIRL OF dVHNSON'S 


beautiful hair, thick and glossy, and was like a crown 
above her quiet face. She bathed her face in cold water, 
and a faint trace of color crept to her cheeks. When she 
was dressed she went out to the other room. 

Mrs. Allen had kindled a fire on the hearth, and the ket • 
tie was singing cheerily over the leaping flames ; the 
coffee filled the room with fragrance. Mrs. Allen was 
straining beef tea into a bowl ; her movements were noise 
less as usual ; her gray dress fell softly about her plump 
figure ; her white apron was spotless ; her cap with the 
broad blue bow on the side, set lightly on her smooth gray 
hair. The breakfast-table was set invitingly near the fire, 
for the morning was chilly as the night had been. As 
Dolores entered she spoke pleasantly to her, noting the 
faint trace of color in the cheeks and the brightness of the 
brave dark eyes. 

“Good-morning, Dolores. Breakfast will be ready on 
the table in a moment if you are ready. ” 

The girl apparently did not hear the pleasant greeting: ; 
she looked steadily into the kindly eyes opposite, her own 
very searching. The nurse turned away and bent over the 
beef tea she was making. 

“ How is my father ?” 

“Asleep, Miss Johnson— asleep and quiet. It is the best 
thing for him. ” 

This was evading the question ; the nurse knew it, and 
the g:irl knew it instinctively ; she paid no heed to tlie 
quiet voice ; her eyes were on the face bending over the 
tea. 

“ How is my father ?” 

She put slow stress on the first word. The question must 
be answered ; she would have an answer ; she was not a 
child to be put off by evasive replies. 

Mrs. Allen bent lower over the tea ; she watched it criti- 
cally, as though the least drop on the white table would be 
fatal. 

“Did I not just tell you he is asleep, Miss Johnson?” 


THAT GIJiL OF JOHNSON'S. 


105 


D id she not know he was alseep ? That was not answer- 
ing her question. 

“Until he wakes it will be quite impossible to say,” Mrs. 
Allen replied. “ The doctors do not wish to wake him ; it 
is well for him to sleep. I have prepared some bacon and 
eggs for breakfast, Miss Johnson? Is that right?” 

“Yes,” Dolores answered. “They will wish their break- 
fast.” 

She gave no sign that bacon and eggs were not their 
usual breakfast ; bread and coffee and occasionally potatoes 
were their meal. But what were bacon and eggs to this 
that had befallen them ? 

Mrs. Allen nodded as she set the tea on one side of the 
hearth to keep hot. Dolores turned away and went out to 
the entry preparing to go out in the rain. Then she took 
the pail and went to the shed to milk Brindle. Mrs. Allen 
paused at the window to watch her. She was a grotesque 
figure striding through the storm with her father’s hat on, 
and the boots pathetically out of place on her feet. The 
nurse shook her head as she went back into the room set- 
ting the dishes and preparing the bacon and eggs for the 
doctors beyond the closed doors. 

Dolores was drenched when she reached the shed, but 
she minded it apparently not at all. She pushed back the 
shawl and drew the three-legged stool out of the corner. 
Brindle watched her with great solemn eyes. The girl laid 
her hand lingeringly on the brown flank nearest her. She 
was fond of the cow in her way ; somehow the big sober 
animal seemed to understand her, and never shunned her 
as people did. 

The streams of milk in the pail joined in with the rain 
against the windows. It was half gloom in the shed. The 
chickens strayed in, perking their heads knowingly ; their 
turn would' come next ; the girl never forgot them. In the 
pen back of the shed the pig grunted hungrily. When the 
pail was full Dolores pulled down some hay from the 


106 


TEAT GIRL OF JOENSOE S. 


mow overhead and Brindle buried her broad, soft nose in 
it with a deep breath of content. 

The girl carried the foaming milk to the house, and 
strained it into pans, the nurse watching her curiously. 
Then she prepared the feed for the chickens and went out 
to feed them. When she returned to the house Mrs. Allen 
removed her wet clothing and requested her to change her 
gown, hers was so wet and draggled. 

Dolores looked at her in surprise. She was in the habit 
of performing these duties rain or shine, and it never 
harmed her ; rain was but rain. It might be that she was 
used to it was the reason why she did not mind it. The 
other women of the settlement did the same, and not one 
of them feared a wetting ; they gave no thought to it ; 
they knew nothing better ; the rain came or the sun, and 
the work was done ; doubtless the men would have been 
surprised had the women complained. She moved from 
her companion to the fire. 

“They will want their breakfast,” she said, slowly, mo- 
tioning toward the closed door beyond as though it were 
the only thought in her mind. 

“They have their breakfast,” Mrs. Allen said. She 
placed the food on the table and drew up the chairs cozily. 

“Come, dear,” she said, the motherly tone returning to 
her voice, “ let us have our breakfast. I think your uncle 
will come over this morning in spite of the rain, and I don’t 
want him to see such a pale little face for his niece. Dora 
is so anxious to see you she will doubtless send for you as 
she cannot come herself. Judge Green will send a closed 
carriage, and you need not fear the rain. ” 

Dolores set down the coffee cup quietlj^ and looked at 
the nurse. She evidently did not understand. Mrs. Allen 
smiled at her as though everything was arranged, and all 
she was expected to do was to obey. 

Yes, she said in her pleasant voice, nodding her gray 
head until the broad blue ribbon quivered. “Never you 
fear, Dolores. Dora hasn’t forgotten you ; they’ll come 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. l07 

for you this morning in spite of the rain. Dora will not 
rest till she has you.” 

Dolores’ hands dropped in her lap ; the aroma of the 
coffee sickened her ; the bacon and eggs were disagreeable. 
She half turned her head to avoid them ; her face was 
colorless and stern. A feeling of indignation possessed 
her ; her eyes were wide and steady ; when she spoke her 
voice was low and grave. Mrs. Allen was somewhat dis- 
mayed, although apparently she took it lightly. 

“ Did I not say I will not leave my father — ever — while 
he lives — not for any one ?” 


108 


TJIAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

DOCTOR DUNWIDDIE. 

By and by one of the physicians came out and asked for 
young Green. 

“We are waiting for him,” he said. “He promised to 
come early and staid at the tavern on purpose. ” 

Dolores eyed him gravely ; this was one of the men who 
had shut her from her father — this man and this woman. 
She was setting the dishes on the dresser, but paused to 
watch him. He crossed over to one of the windows and 
looked down toward the tavern. The rain swirled and 
struck the panes sharply ; he turned away from the un- 
pleasant outlook with a shrug of his broad shoulders. He 
was a fine-looking man, tall, broad-shouldered, with a 
kindly mouth under the dark mustache, and a pleasant 
gleam in the keen eyes beneath the broad white forehead. 
His close shaven dark hair was streaked with gray, but he 
was a young man still — young and gentle-hearted in spite 
of his trying life. 

“It’s a dreary day,” he said, simply. “I wish it were 
brighter.” 

Dolores looked at him calmly; she took no meaning 
from his Avords ; any one could have said the same. 

He scarcely noticed her ; when he came out he bade her 
a courteous good-morning ; his conversation was with the 
nurse ; he would have been glad were the girl well out of 
the house. 

“Charlie promised to come,” he said, turning again to 
the window ; “ he usually keeps his promise, and— he is 
coming,” he turned with a half laugh toward the nurse. 
“Is everything ready, Mrs. Allen? A dreary day. I wish 
it were brighter. ” 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


109 


His kindly face was grave and stern with thought ; he 
did not look capable of harshness toward a woman. 

Dolores spoke to him. A slight frown wrinkled his fore- 
head ; he wished she were well out of the house. 

“How is my father?’’ 

Young Green was coming up the walk ; Dr. Dunwiddie 
opened the door and greeted him cheerily, but in a subdued 
tone that they all used in the house. 

“ Glad to see you, Charlie ; I was beginning to think you 
were called away to some urgent case. I beg your pardon, 
Miss Johnson.” 

“It is strange,” Dolores said slowly. Someway every one 
listened when Dolores spoke. “It is strange,” she repeated, 
slowly and distinctly, her voice filling every corner of the 
long, low room. “ He is my father ; why can I not see him ? 
Why does no one tell me of him ? Surely I should know. 
They think I cannot nurse my father ; do I not know his 
ways better than any one else ? Why can I not see him ? 
Even he,” with a slow motion of her hand toward young 
Green, “puts me off when I ask about him. You can tell 
me if you will.” 

Her solemn eyes were on Dr. Dunwiddie ’s face; she 
trusted him instinctively ; she knew he would tell her the 
truth. 

“You shall see him,” the doctor replied, quietly, as 
though it were a matter of little moment. “He is sleeping 
now. Miss Johnson ; as soon as he wakes you shall see him. 
Your uncle will be here this morning, but unless your 
father is awake he cannot see him. Are you ready, 
Charlie ?” 

“Yes,” young Green replied, his eyes on Dolores’ face. 
He crossed over to her side as Dr. Dunwiddie left the room, 

“I am glad you slept last night, Miss Johnson,” he said, 

“ I brought this, thinking you might like to read it. It was 
in my pocket, and I did not give it to you yesterday. It is 
full of new facts regarding the stars— they have discovered 


110 


THAT GIRL OF JOHXSON'S. 


a new star, or think they have. The wise men of science 
are puzzling their heads over it.” 

He, too, noted the trace of soft color in the smooth 
cheeks and the light in the dark eyes under the lifted 
silken lashes. The girl’s soul was in her eyes as she lifted 
them to his as he stood beside her, and his heart ached for 
her, knowing the truth to which she was shut out. 

“They will not let me see my father,” she said, slowly, 
her eyes searching his face as though to read therein why 
this thing should be. 

He smiled reassuringly, and laid his strong hand over 
hers, resting upon the dresser, though a shadow was in 
his eyes for very pity of the tender, wondering face lifted 
to his. 

“We are doing the best we can for your father, Dolores, 
and as soon as he wakens you shall see him. You believe 
me ? I would not tell you an untruth, you know. And 
why should I ?” 

“There is no reason,” she said, and the lashes drooped 
disappointedly over the dark eyes. “Do they think I 
could not bear to be told ? I can nurse him as well as they, 
and I am willing. I believe you, but I must know.” 

“And I promise you,” there was an intensity in his voice 
that caused the lashes to lift from the hidden eyes and a 
swift, sudden startled glance met his, “I promise you, 
Dolores, that you shall know. I have given my word to 
leave everything here in the hands of the doctors, but I 
will see that they tell you as you wish. You are not like 
other women, Dolores Johnson, and there is no reason for 
our treating you as though you were.” Then, seeing the 
startled eyes, he spoke more quietly as he turned from her 
to the other room at Dr. Dunwiddie’s low call in the door- 
way. “You think we are cruel, but we are trying to be 
kindness itself, Dolores. ” 

He left the book of which he had spoken on the dresser, 
and her fingers closed over it as though it might give her 


THAT aiRL OF JOHNSON’S. ni 

strength in the absence of the stronger handclasp of her 
friend. 

The pines bent in the storm outside; the world was 
gray with rain and cloud ; the wind sobbed mournfully. 
She scarcely heard it ; her thoughts were in the room be- 
yond, and with Dora. She was full of wonder at the gen- 
tleness of this new friend of hers, and she half smiled 
thinking of him, though the thought was mingled almost 
unintelligibly with the other thoughts. How could any 
one think she would go to Dora? What was Dora to her? 
She had never seen her, and if she had it would make no 
difference ; of course she would not leave her father. SiTe 
could care for him as well as this nurse Dora had sent. 
All the other women of the settlement did so ; she could 
do the same for her father. They would let her care for 
him when they knew she could. Would not Dora care for 
her father under the circumstances ? 

She lifted the book and clasped her two hands around it. 
If Dora would not do this she would not like her, but she 
believed that she would. All women cared for the men of 
their households when they needed care ; there was no 
reason why she should be shut out from her father’s room. 

The voice of the nurse broke in on her thoughts ; the tone 
expressed great relief. Dolores’ fingers instinctively 
tightened around the book she held. 

“Your uncle is coming, Dolores. I knew he would come. 
If Dora could not come she would send for you. She told 
me so herself. I am thankful he is here.” 


112 


THAT QIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 


CHAPTEE XXV. 

A GENTLE MESSAGE. 

A closed carriage stopped at the gate ; the team of 
powerful bays were covered in rubber blankets ; their 
hoofs were heavy with mud ; the body of the carriage was 
splashed, the wheels clogged. When the door was opened 
a^entleman alighted— a short, stout gentleman wrapped 
in a rubber coat, with high boots and a close gray cap. He 
struggled a moment with the rickety gate, and then hur- 
ried up the drenched walk. 

Mrs. Allen tapped lightly on the bedroom door, and 
Charlie and Dr. Dunwiddie came out at once. They met 
the new-comer at the door with a few hurried words. 
Young Green took his coat and hat, and hung them in the 
entry to drip. 

Dolores had not changed her position ; she still stood at 
the dresser, the book closely clasped in her hands as though 
a friend. Young Green’s eyes flashed as though with 
pleasure when he saw this. Her face was grave and quiet, 
but her eyes had darkened and grown luminous as she 
watched the group at the door. When her uncle advanced 
toward her she eyed him searchingly. 

She was disappointed in him ; there was nothing remark- 
able about him ; he was short and stout ; she did not like 
short, stout men ; his face was florid, his hair red ; his 
deep set eyes were blue and kindly ; his mouth under the 
red mustache was stern, but there were pleasant lines 
about it as though he often smiled. His voice was or- 
dinary. She noted this when he spoke ; her eai‘S were 
growing sharper to catch the sound of words. 

Placing his two strong hands on her shoulders he, turned, 
her toward the light, eying her keenly. 

‘‘ Apd this is Joe’s girl,” he said. 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 


113 


She disliked him at once ; her wide brown eyes met his 
blue ones squarely, but the eager light had died from 
them, they were cold and calm ; he could see no farther 
than the surface. Her mouth, too, was straight and un- 
yielding. To her his tone implied that she disappointed 
him ; it was of no consequence to her, however, because 
she disliked him. But she had mistaken his meaning. As 
he looked at the calm, quiet face, the large dark eyes that 
were so clearly windows to the pure soul within, the sen- 
sitive mouth, large, but well formed, full of strong charac- 
ter, the slender, graceful figure in the print gown pos- 
sessing a quaint dignity, the wonder grew and deepened in 
his mind that the brother of his recollections should have 
such a daughter as this — a woman one did not meet every 
day even in his world — a girl whose soul was purer than 
many of those he knew. 

“ And this is Joe’s girl !” he repeated, slowly. “ My dear, 
I am glad to have found you. ” 

No one had ever yet told her a lie, and that every one 
meant what was said was a matter of course. It was a 
new thing for any one to be glad to see her, and she almost 
liked him. The words touched her strangely, but she made 
no reply, though her eyes softened somewhat. 

“ My girl sent you a message, Dolores. She told me to be 
certain to follow instructions, too ; Dora is an exacting 
young body, . I assure you. Between you two my life will 
be rather hard for an old fellow. I am going in to look at 
Joe if I may not speak to him ; when I return you will be 
ready, my dear.” 

He turned away with a pleasant laugh, and joined young 
Green and Dr. Dunwiddie without waiting for her reply. 

She looked after him with unfriendly eyes as he stood 
for a moment talking with the others outside the door, but 
after a few words that were indistinguishable to her they 
opened the door and passed in, closing the door behind 
them. Then she arose slowly, her eyes darkening. The lit- 
tle scented note her uncle had given her fell unheeded at 


114 


THAT Glia OF JOHNSON'S. 


her feet. She spoke slowly, but her words were clear ; there 
was no bitterness in her voice, only a great wonder. 

“ He is my father, and they will not let me in there, yet 
he can see him. The doctor told me I should see him as 
soon as he awoke ; he said that if my uncle should come 
and he were not awake he could not see him. They told 
me my father is sleeping, and yet they have let him in. ” 

The nurse laid her hand caressingly on the girl’s arm, 
and her voice was low and kind when she spoke. She was 
almost sorry for her for the moment. 

“Of course,” she said, in a matter of fact tone. “Re- 
member, Dolores, it is years since he has seen your father, 
and though Dr. Dunwiddie did not intend to let him go in 
how could he refuse, especially when they will not disturb 
your father ? And do you know, as soon as he is better we 
are going to take him over to the town so you can nurse 
him to your heart's content? There are pretty houses in 
the town, and your uncle intends buying one and furnish- 
ing it for you. There’s a fine blacksmith’s shop with a 
good business for your father, and he is to have a house- 
keeper and everything comfortable while you are in New 
York with us. And in summer, when you and Dora are 
tired of the city, you can run out here to the mountains, 
and maybe bring some friends with you, and have a jolly 
time, with everything done for yon and never a thought of 
care. Dora has planned everything, and her father has 
given her leave to do as she likes in it all. I am sure, too, 
that you will help her, for you will carry her out of herself. 

“ Your uncle will be ready in a moment, and he does not 
like to wait ; you needn’t change your dress, and can wear 
my wrap and bonnet. Dora will fix everything when you 
get there. Here is her note ; you have not yet read it. 
Shall I read it for you while you get ready ?” 

She stooped and picked up the note where it had fallen, 
talking continually, giving the ^irl no time to reply had 
she so wished. 

“Dora writes such a pretty hand ; they say those who 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


115 


draw well write well, and Dora makes charming sketches. 
You will learn that, and to paint as well. Every one either 
paints, or plays, or sings at home, and you will soon get 
used to the ways there and like them. It is a more conven- 
tional world, and you ‘cannot do many things there that 
you do here. I will tell you some of them some time. I 
know that you like everything beautiful ; that is one reason 
why I am so sure you will like Dora. You will need few 
lessons in singing ; your voice is full of it. Dora’s master 
says he can tell whether persons have good voices before 
ever he hears them sing, simply by hearing them talk. 
And you can talk well, I am sure. Here is your note ; it 
reads like her, only one misses her pretty voice. ” 

Mrs. Allen’s voice was low and even ; not a note was 
raised, bub Dolores began to positively dislike her. She 
spoke rapidly, but with not a trace of excitement ; more 
as though she would give the girl no time to think. She 
took down her wraps from where she had hung them 
when she came ; she unfolded the soft gray shawl, and laid 
it over a chair, then she opened the note with no break in 
the conversation, and read aloud : 

“ My de.\r new Cousin Nurse Allen has told you I 
have come to claim you, or rather I have come part way to 
claim you. They will not allow me to go out to-day, so 
father has promised me solemnly that he will bring you 
with him to me. The carriage is close and dry ; he has 
wraps for you ; I can wait no longer to know you. Uncle 
Joe will let you come, I am sure. Nurse Allen will take 
good care of him, and bring: him to us by and by, and we 
can go over to see him when the weather is dry. I am 
waiting to see him, but it is you I wish now. Give him 
my love. I hope he is better, and will go to see him soon. 
Come to me at once ; I wish you, Dolores Johnson, and can 
wait no longer. Dora.” 


116 


THAT OIBL OF JOHNSON'S, 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

DOLORES’ REPLY. 

Dolores listened quietly, with no sign of impatience or 
interest ; she stood erect and silent, her hands still on the 
book young Green had given her, her eyes resting calmly 
on Mrs. Allen’s face. 

The bedroom door opened, and her uncle came out, ac- 
companied by young Green and Dr. Duhwiddie. He no- 
ticed the wraps made ready, and spoke cheerily : 

“Well, my dear, are you ready? My girl will be watch- 
ing for us — eh. Green ? And if you are ready we will go at 
once. ” 

Mrs. Allen advanced and began putting the wraps around 
the girl, but Dolores stepped back to avoid her, giving her 
a slow glance as of reproach, then she turned away from 
the others toward the physician who was talking earnestly 
to young Green at the farther window. She did not see 
young Green ; her eyes were intent on the face of his com- 
panion. 

Her uncle was somewhat annoyed ; the girl interested 
him, but he did not understand her. She was totally differ- 
ent from Dora ; what Dora meant she was in the habit of 
saying ; Dolores acted much more than she said. 

Young Green’s eyes had not left her face during his con- 
versation with Dr. Dunwiddie, or rather during the doc- 
tor’s conversation with him ; his blue eyes were dark with 
intensity of thought, and his mouth was almost womanly 
in its tenderness. 

Mrs. Allen bit her lip with vexation ; she understood the 
girl no more than did Lemuel Johnson. She looked in 
perplexity from one to the other ; from the young man at 
the window to the florid face beside her ; she held the 
wraps as though she knew not what to do with them. 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


117 


There was no trace of agitation in the young girl’s face 
or manner as she crossed the room to the two at the small 
south window. 

“Dr. Dunwiddie,” she said, gravely. Her eyes were 
searching his for the truth ; she never glanced at his com- 
panion. “Dr. Dunwiddie,” she continued, slowly and dis- 
tinctly, “you can tell me if you will. There is no reason 
why I should not know the truth ; is he not my father ? 
Have I not a right to know ? These others are strangers 
here, yet they are allowed to be with him, to care for him, 
and know what the matter is, while I am shut out from 
his room and put off with evasive replies when I wish to 
know. Do you think this is fair or just? All the other 
women of the settlement care for the men when there is 
need, there is no reason why I should not do the same if 
there is need, and there must be, else why are these 
strangers here, and why is he kept so quiet? I do not 
understand it, and I cannot unless you will tell me. And 
here is my uncle here waiting to take me away from my 
father, to leave him to be taken care of by strangers. I do 
not know my uncle ; no doubt he wishes us well, but he is 
a stranger to me, and he is my father. Dora does not 
know,” she lingered over the name — “how could she 
know, or I am sure she would not wish me to go ; she could 
not wish to go ; she would not do it herself — you know she 
would not do it herself. Do you think I do not know some- 
thing ails my father more than you have said ?” 

The bedroom door opened noiselessly, and Dr. Grey came 
out. He was somewhat older than his contemporary, but 
he had the appearance and manner of one much younger. 
He was full of life and jollity, in spite of his close connec- 
tion with life’s last tragedy. His round, good-natured face 
was wrinkled with smiles, his close cropped hair was red 
and fairly stood up all over his head. He was of medium 
height, with a stout yet agile figure ; his reddish brown 
eyes were constantly twinkling as with suppressed laugh- 
ter, All his patients liked him, but in an illness demand- 


118 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


ing experienced care they would have no one but Dr. Dun- 
widdie. As he stepped into the room, closing the door be- 
hind him, Dr. Dunwiddie motioned for him to return, but 
he shook his head emphatically. 

“He’s like a log, Hal ; the trump of the archangel alone 
could arouse him. I’ve stuck to him day and night like an 
obedient puppet ; now I want a change ; what’s all this 
going on out here ? When anything’s going on I’m not to 
be kept in the dark. You needn’t look so reproachful, 
Charlie ; he can get on without me for a moment. What 
ails you people out here ?” 

Dr. Dunwiddie frowned, and his voice was almost sharp 
as he answered : 

“ There is nothing going on here to interest you, Tom, and 
Mr. Johnson must not be left alone one moment. If you 
are tired, I will take your place until — ” 

“Until it’s over,” the other interrupted. “Lord knows I 
wish it were well over ; it’s a dused bad piece of business 
anyhow, and I wish I were well out of it. ” 

He was stopped by a gesture from Dr. Dunwiddie. Young 
Green also turned on him with flashing eyes. 

Dolores seemed turning into stone ; her face was whiten- 
ing, and her eyes' dilating ; her voice sounded strange even 
to herself as she laid her hand on the doctor’s arm as he 
was passing her. 

“You will not go until you have answered me. Dr. Dun- 
widdie ?” 

It was more a* command than a query ; her eyes were full 
on him, and he paused instinctively. 

Her uncle spoke impatiently ; like all men, he disliked 
scenes ; this girl seemed capable of getting one up at al- 
most any moment. He was glad Dora was unlike her ; 
Dora was gentle and womanly ; she obeyed commands 
without questioning ; this girl was apparently unused to 
any sort of control. 

“My dear Dolores,” he said, “Dora is waiting for us. 
Why do you bother the doctors?” They know much better 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


119 


than we do what is best to be done. Come, like a good 
girl, let us go ; we are only hindering the others. ” 

“ Why should I hinder them ?” she asked, gravely. “They 
are strangers here ; he is my father. ” 

“Yes, of course,” he said, brusquely. “Of course, Do- 
lores. W e all know that, but they know much better than 
we do what is best to be done. Dora is waiting for you — it 
is better in every way for us to go. ” 

She stood erect and slender among them, her print 
gown falling around her to her feet, her face catching the 
shadows of the storm upon it; even Dr. Grey felt his 
laughter die within him as he watched her. 

“Did I not say,” the voice was almost solemn in its 
grave earnestness, “that I will not leave him — ever — 
while he lives — not for any one ?” 

None of them spoke for a moment ; not one of them was 
capable of deceiving her as she stood so grave and quiet 
waiting his reply. That she had a right to know, a better 
right than they could not be denied. She had spoken the 
truth ; she was a woman capable of enduring much, of 
suffering much ; she was not a child to be put off with 
evasive replies. Her uncle moved uneasily; he walked 
over to the window facing the road ; the horses were stand- 
ing with bent heads ; the driver in his rubber hat and coat 
sat like a statue. One or two chickens with draggled tail 
feathers hastened across the windy walk, struggling 
against the wind ; the gray mists tangled themselves 
around the mountain summit ; the cloud sscudded before 
the east wind like frightened things. He turned again and 
went back to Mrs. Allen’s side. 

Dr. Grey stood at the bedroom door ; he had not moved 
since the girl spoke ; she impressed him as she impressed 
the others. Young Green looked troubled ; he started as 
though he would go to Dolores, and checked himself. 
Even Dr. Dunwiddie was somewhat disquieted ; he looked 
beyond the girl out of the opposite window ; his gaze was 


120 


TEAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


set as though he were in deep thought ; his brows met 
heavily and his lips were shut close. 

They waited for him to speak ; the girl knew he would 
tell her ; the others w^ere sure he would do what was best. 
As his gaze left the window and he turned to Dolores, he 
caught the look on young Green’s face. His own cleared 
instantly ; he was himself again, grave, practical, a thor- 
ough physician and gentleman. 

“My dear Miss Johnson,” he said — she was growing aC’ 
customed to the name — “I acknowledge that I have done 
wrong in keeping from you the true facts of the case ; I 
thought you could not bear them ; I did not know you for 
the woman you are. ” 

Green started forward, as though he would speak, but 
paused. 

“ It is all right, Charlie, ” Dr. Duiiwiddie went on, with a 
slow smile for his friend ; “ we were fools to have kept it 
from her. A woman like this to be put off as though she 
were a child ! My dear Miss Johnson,” he was grave, cour- 
teous ; her eyes did not leave his face — searching, steady 
eyes — ‘‘ when your father fell — fully twenty feet it was — he 
struck the ledge with great force ; had he dropped it might 
scarcely have hurt him, though it is evident that the ledge 
below is rocky and the bushes scrubby and sharp ; as it 
was, he lost his balance and slipped down suddenly with a 
force I wonder did not kill him outright. 

“ The bushes were scrubby and brittle ; they broke under 
his weight ; he is covered with bruises inflicted by them. 
The rocks were mossy ; it is well they were ; as it is, he 
broke both legs and an arm, besides internal injuries which 
cannot be determined upon at once.” 

She watched him steadily ; instinctively she knew he 
had not told her all. Her hands were clenched at her 
side ; the book had fallen from them. She made no other 
movement or sign of emotion. Her lips were white, and 
set in a straight line. Mrs. Allen crossed over and touched 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


121 


her hand, but she paid no heed to her ; she was waiting to 
know the worst. 

“You know how he was brought home,” continued Dr. 
Dunwiddie. “You were the one who found him ; to you he 
owes his life— you and Charlie. His right leg was broken 
below the knee ; we set that and his arm yesterday, but 
his left leg — ” 

His voice was steady and grave. Mrs. Allen’s face was 
blanching ; how the girl wouM take it she did not know ; 
she was used to many affecting scenes, but this was totally 
different. Young Green stood erect at the window, his 
hands clasped behind him, the nails cutting into the flesh 
in his stern self-control, his eyes not moving from the re- 
pressed face opposite. Dolores did not once glance toward 
him. 

“ His left leg is broken in two places. Miss Johnson. We 
did not wish to tell you till the worst was over, but it is 
best you should know We intended you to go with your 
uncle and know nothing of this till it was over. It is best 
this way. 

“Your father remained so long in that position in the 
night dampness, in his exhausted state, that we dared do 
nothing yesterday. We wished to save this limb if it were 
possible ; it would be worse than folly to attempt it ; it is 
best that it should go. Then, with careful nursing, we 
may bring him around all right.” 

Still Dolores did not move ; she wished to understand it 
thoroughly, as yet the truth was but slowly dawning upon 
her. 

“I thought that you were not capable of hearing the 
truth ; I believed you were like many women ; I see how 
mistaken I was ; your friend here,” with a movement of 
his hand and a half smile toward young Green, “ tried to 
impress upon me that you were braver than other 
women, but I would not be convinced. I know now that 
you are brave — brave enough for this — and worse. ” 

She understood. The truth was upon her in all the 


122 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 


blackness of darkness. There had been little love between 
her and her father, but he was the only one in the world to 
her, and now — 

She spoke, and her voice was like a stranger’s. 

“Then— he will— die— you think?” 

She asked it calmly, except that her lips were whiter 
than usual and stiff, so that the words came unevenly. His 
heart ached for her ; he knew that she suffered more than 
most women would suffer ; that she was capable of suffer- 
ing more intensely than she was now. 

“I think that ho may die, Miss Johnson, but we will 
hope for the best. Be that as it may, it is right for you to 
know. I beg your pardon for having kept it from you for 
so long.” 

“You will let me nurse him?” she asked. Her face was 
lifted to his, and there was not a quiver of a muscle, not 
the trembling of the white lids fringed with the silken 
lashes over the steady, searching eyes. 

“You shall nurse him,” Dr. Dunwiddie replied, gravely, 
a flash of wondering admiration in his black eyes meeting 
hers in that comprehensive glance that showed to him the 
depth of this woman’s soul, the marvelous strength of her 
self-command. Ay, indeed she should nurse him. Such 
nerve as this in a woman was something remarkable. 
Lemuel Johnson’s daughter had been to him a revelation 
of unselfish suffering in woman, being called to her at once 
upon their arrival in the town, but even she was nothing 
compared with this mountaineer's daughter with no edu- 
cator but the strength of her own character. 

As he turned away toward the bedroom she started to 
follow him, but Mrs. Allen laid her hand upon her shoul- 
der, and young Green crossed quickly to her side, his faje 
softened strangely. 

“Don’t go in yet, Dolores — not just yet!” he said, en- 
treatingly, bending his fair head on a level with hers, the 
kindly light deepening in his eyes as they met the half 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


123 


dazed look in hers raised to his face. “ You shall go as 
soon as it is best. I will not let you go there now. ” 

Her eyes searched his face, large and dark and beautiful 
eyes they were ; she scarcely recognized him for the mo- 
ment. 

“Why should I not go?” she asked, gravely. “I am to 
nurse him ; Dr. Dunwiddie has promised that I shall. Is 
he not my father ?” 

But his hand was upon her «rm strong and warm and 
tender, and she obeyed him silently. 

Her uncle left soon after, and Mrs. Allen sent a note to 
Dora explaining the strange scene. Dolores said no word ; 
she was waiting for them to call her to nurse her father ; 
her mind was full of that ; she had no thought for this man 
who called himself her uncle, but who would have kept her 
fiOm her father’s room. The doctor’s words grew con- 
fused the more she thought of them, and jangled them- 
selves together over and over in her mind. She scarcely 
heard what was going on around her ; when her uncle 
stooped to kiss her forehead and promised that Dora 
should come to her as soon as it were possible she looked 
through and through him ; she heard his words, but they 
made no impression upon her ; her thoughts were in the 
quiet room beyond the closed door. 


124 


TEAT QIBL OF JOHNSON’S 


CHAPTEE XXVII. 

“man PROPOSES; GOD DISPOSES.” 

Johnson did not die ; that he lived through the terrible 
strain upon his vitality showed that he had an iron consti- 
tution, the doctors said ; but the men at the tavern shook 
their heads over it, and looked meaningly at each other. 
They had their own opinion of the matter ; perhaps they 
knew more than the doctors did ; the wise men might open 
their eyes in amazement should they choose to tell their 
suspicions. Johnson was kept under the influence of opi- 
ates for three days and nights ; he was not left alone one 
moment ; they fed him on Mrs. Allen’s beef tea and drinks, 
and cared for him as though he were a baby, the men said 
in half whispers— him, with muscles like iron and cords 
like an ox. 

Lodie daily carried the news, brief items briefly told in 
his measured tones as they gathered in the outer room of 
the tavern of an evening, or called now and then across the 
drenched gardens to each other, or met at the wells. And 
the women over their tubs, as they washed the clothes 
up and down, and soaped and rinsed and wrung them in 
clear water, leaving them to soak till the storm should be 
over, gossiped about “this thet hev hap’d Johnsing,” and 
his girl, and the airs they put on since Lemuel Johnson — 
he who was born in the settlement years ago — had come 
with his girl and his gold to see that his brother should 
live like other folks, and was not so “no ’count an’ 
shef’less.” 

Dolores, knowing nothing of these gossipings, and 
caring nothing for them, had she known, watched her 
father untiringly. She would have nursed him night and 
day had they allowed her to do so, but she obeyed their 


THAT OIRL OF JOHNSON* S. 


125 


commands meekly as Dora could have done, and when 
they sent her to bed she went like a child and closed her 
wide, troubled eyes, and slept as only a tired nature can 
sleep — dreamlessly, dead, neither moving or speaking till 
daylierht came. During the day she watched at his side 
with idle hands and eyes that seemed to see much that 
others never saw, or she took the spoon from the hands of 
the nurse and fed him at stated intervals gently, almost 
tenderly, with steady fingers and nerves. She never com- 
plained of being tired ; she seldom spoke. 

Young Green had gone home, but he came over every 
day, bringing gentle messages and thoughtful delicacies 
from Dora, and cheerful words in his pleasant voice with 
his kindly eyes upon her face, and the words he spoke, 
though they might be trivial, followed the girl through 
the live long day, though apparently she scarcely heard 
them, and seldom answered him. Her cheeks had gath- 
ered color and her eyes lost their strained look when he 
left, which the nurse and the doctors noted with different 
effect, and said it was well ; while the eyes of the young 
man himself were quick to catch changes, and he carried a 
lighter heart back to the town than he brought over the 
stormy mountain with its vail and mist and its sobbing 
pines. 

For three days Johnson lay in this stupor so like death, 
scarcely stirring, not opening his eyes ; his face was thin 
and drawn, his eyes sunken and hollow ; his hair, a few 
days before so lightly sprinkled with gray, had grown 
suddenly white. He had aged so that his every-day com- 
panions would not know him. 

Dolores saw this in silence ; her thoughts were busy, but 
her lips were dumb. What she felt during those three 
dark days with the silence as of death in the house, and 
the rain and wind sobbing around the corners, and the 
familiar pines tapping at the windows, no one ever knew. 
Those about her guessed in part, but even they never fully 
realized what she suffered, not even young Green, whose 


126 


TEAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


eyes had grown wonderfully keen to note the changes of 
the sweet, pale face, and the shadoAvs of the dark, Avonder- 
ing eyes. He understood better than the others, and his 
heart ached for her many a time, and his thoughts no one 
kneAA% of hoAA" he Avould haA^e taken the girl into his arms 
and comforted her had he dared, of hoAv he longed to prove 
to her what love Avas in spite of its sadness. For he kneAv 
that he loved her. It had come upon him the first night as 
he stood behind her in the firelight and watched the pure 
face bent above the book on her knees. It had come al- 
most like a bloAv at first, but full of a sAA^eetness that aa’us 
full of pain also, she was so high aboA^e him, she had neA^er 
a thought of loA^e, she had never even known AAdiat love 
was as others kneAv it in the home life. And there was a 
tenderness in the thought of how he — he, the first one in 
the Avorld to shoAA^ her what loA’^e might be — AAT)uld proAm 
to her the depth of its tenderness and holiness. She ne\"er 
kneAv. She lifted her true eyes to his full of sadness under 
the silken lashes, and there might come traces of color 
into the pure face, but there AA^as neA’-er a thought of other 
than an undefined feeling of rest and pleasure in is pres- 
ence ; never a thought of Avdiat it might be to lose the 
kindly thought of the fair-haired young man out of her life 
utterly. This illness of her father was terrible ; it AAms 
good to have the comfort of this friend AA^ho had been with 
her in the search for him, who had risked his life to save 
him in spite of the shadoAv that lay OA^er his life and the 
malice in the laming of the mare. Her life AA*as changing 
so gradually she neA^er realized AA^hat it might mean ; she 
Avmuld AA^aken sharply some day, and the AA'orld Avould be 
utterly different. 

Dr. Grey Avent home after that first day after the opera- 
tion, but Dr. DunAvuddie remained at the taA^ern to be 
AAuthin easy reach of the house, and at night he took Mrs. 
Allen’s place at the bedside, and Av^atched Avhile the women 
slept. 

At sunset the third day the rain ceased, and the mist 


mAT GIRL OF JOHNSON* S. 


127 


dragged brokenly across the peaks of the mountains ; 
the hills were loud with the cry of the swollen river in the 
valley, and the cascades shouted aloud as they leaped the 
riven sides of the mountains to join the river and eat at 
the worn old bridge at the foot of the roadway. The wind 
had shifted, and blew soft and low over the mountain rising 
toward the west, wild with the shreds of the mist and the 
babble of the waters. 

Dolores sat at the window facing the mountain ; her eyes 
were on her father’s face, so hollow and weird in the shad- 
ows ; her thoughts were on many things half betrayed by 
the wistful expression of the pure, pale face ; her hands lay 
in her lap. 

The rain had ceased at last, and Dr. Dunwiddie, who also 
sat at the bedside, his eyes intent on the face of the girl, so 
grave and quiet in the light of the sunset, had raised the 
tiny window to let in the cool wind from the west, stealing 
down from the summit heavy with the scent from the pines 
and the odors of mold fresh watered. The clouds just 
above the distant peaks, parted in sudden relenting after 
three days and nights of interminable raining, and through 
the rent the setting sun flooded the summit tangled with 
shreds of mist and drooping boughs of the pines heavy 
with moisture, with a radiant glory that was dazzling. 

Dolores, as though roused by the sudden rush of the 
sunbeams, slowly raised her head and looked up to the 
radiant mountain. Her face was full in the light and 
touched with the roseate colors, flushed softly with the 
faintest trace of pink as an artist would color a rare paint- 
ing. Her sad, dark eyes grew soft and deeper in color, 
and her lips set close as in sorrow, slowly parted in one 
of her rare smiles, not seen on her face since that day when 
she heard of the trial to be held over in the town about 
the laming of the mare. As she turned her head the comb 
— an old-fashioned tortoise shell that had been her mother’s 
— suddenly slipped from the heavy coil of her hair which, 


128 


TUAT OIBL OF JOHNSON'S, 


SO loosened, fell in a mass of beauty, glinting, lustrous, 
about her. 

The nurse softly opened the door at that moment, bring- 
ing the doctor’s supper, and a half baleful glitter appeared 
in her eyes as she saw the two so utterly unconscious of 
her presence. The sharp click of the comb as it struck the 
floor aroused the girl, and she turned from the radiant 
sunset, lifting her hands to her head as though she were 
used to the slipping of her comb, and her large, dark eyes 
met the black ones opposite. 

Dr. Dunwdidie suddenly sat erect, with his usual quiet 
dignity ; the girl had startled him out of himself ; he had 
forgotten everything but her. Her grave face, with its 
solemn eyes, touched by the sunset, framed by the heavy 
tresses of loosened hair, was like an exquisite Madonna, 
and he held his breath in admiration and mute wonder. As 
he noticed Mrs. Allen, however, he regained his compos- 
ure, while Dolores gathered up her hair slowly, and stooped 
to pick up her comb. It had snapped in two. 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON^ 8, 


129 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

OVER-FATIGUING. 

“You two are excellent nurses,” Mrs. Allen said, softly, 
a smile on her lips as she motioned with her head toward 
the bed. 

Dr. Dimwiddie turned at once with a slight exclamation, 
and Dolores arose with the comb in her hand, her hair fall- 
ing around .her, her eyes dark as though tears were in 
them, her lips shut close. Her mother’s comb — this slip of 
tortoise shell, old fashioned and faded, that Betsy Glenn 
had given her together with a thin, worn ring of gold that 
her mother had given her friend to keep till her daughter 
should be old enough to value them. The ring was on her 
finger, but the comb, the frail bit of shell, one of her dear- 
est treasures, as having been worn by her mother on her 
wedding day, and every day after till she died — what good 
was it now ? Of what use could it be save to be hidden 
away where no eyes but her own could see it ? She closed 
her fingeit tightly over the broken shell, as though fearful 
it would be taken away from her, as she turned her eyes 
toward the bed and met full in hers the weak gaze of her 
father. Only for a moment, however, for the eyes closed 
almost immediately as though the light hurt them, but in 
that moment Dolores once -more faced his soul with hers. 

Dr. Dunwiddie forgot all romantic thoughts or dreams as 
he bent above the man, and Mrs. Allen, setting aside the 
tray, brought in the beef tea. Dolores had hidden the 
comb in her pocket, and braided her hair down her back, 
and stood beside Dr. Dunwiddie ready for what should 
come. When Mrs. Allen brought in the tea she took the 
bowl from her hand with a quiet authority that left the 
woman nothing to say. She asked no questions, she said 
nothing ; but she gave the tea in such doses as the doctor 


130 


THAT OIBL OF JOHNSON^ S, 


advised, moving like a piece of machinery under his guid- 
ing. Then she returned the bowl to the nurse, and waited 
for further orders. 

Once more her father opened his eyes and looked first at 
the doctor, then at her. At the doctor’s suggestion she 
spoke to him. 

“Father,” she said, slowly, that he might understand. 
“Father.” 

But the eyes resting on her face held no gleam of pleas- 
ure at seeing her there ; rather, it might be said, there was 
a flash of hatred there as in the old days. Then they 
drooped again and closed, and presently his breathing in- 
dicated that he slept. 

“ Miss Johnson,” Dr. Dunwiddie said, by and by, as he sat 
by the window eating the supper Mrs. Allen had brought 
him, “ I told you the other day that it was possible your 
father would not recover ; do you remember ?” 

She bowed her head in acquiescence, but did not speak. 
She was standing at the head of the bed, with her hands 
resting on the head-board, and she looked across at him 
with steady eyes. He met the glance with a great kind- 
ness in his. Would he tell her that her father was dying? 
She believed she could endure even that now f that she 
could endure almost anything; she was growing accus- 
tomed to trouble and suffering. 

“My dear Miss Johnson,” the doctor’s voice was grave, 
but there was a ring in it, a hidden note that struck her 
ear as unusual. “My dear Miss Johnson, I believe lam 
safe in saying that your father will sleep through the night 
a natural, quiet slumber, without the aid of opiates, and if 
he does he will recover. I would not tell you this were I 
not quite sure of it. I would not raise your hopes in vain. 
His recovery is almost certain, so far as human power 
goes. He will be lame always ; he will not have quite his 
old strength, but he will live and be much his old self 
again.” 

Tfee ^ttcptiy^ face at the head of the bed changed 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON^ 8. 


131 


not at all, though the drawn expression disappeared from 
around the mouth, and the eyes were clear and level in 
their gaze. 

For a moment Dr. Dunwiddie was uncertain whether or 
not the girl was glad of the news. She gave no sign, and 
said not a word, but stood grave, and stately, and womanly, 
with the shadows of the night gathering around her, steal- 
ing along the bed, across the face of the sleeper, and up 
and up toward her face. 

Suddenly they clutched at her throat, tightening their 
hold, like iron bands, ever contracting, growing firmer, 
unyielding ; a thousand iron hands were on her, a thous- 
and elfish voices, shrill, and wild, and weird, filled the 
corners of the room, the house ; filled the darkness, crowd- 
ing it upon her, till it seemed as though she were suffocat- 
ing, till it seemed as though she would die. Loud and 
weird and terrible they were to her, filling her ears, shout- 
ing of the evil that had come through hatred and malice, 
and of what would follow upon so evil a deed. The hands 
were tightening their hold, they were struggling one with 
another for the mastery ; a dozen hands were torn from 
her throat only to be instantly replaced by others stronger 
and firmer. She caught at them, and struggled, she fought 
against them, but she dared not cry for help. This that 
she was suffering no one must know ; they would know 
soon enough — every one. 

The voices grew wilder about her ; they shouted in elfish 
glee ; their words ran in together unmeaningly except one 
or two close to her ear, that whispered, with deadly mean- 
ing: 

“ When your father is well enough to prove — to prove — ” 

Then slowly she came out of this babal of noises ; they 
grew fainter and fainter, and died away among the pines ; 
the hands about her throat relaxed. She looked around to 
see if she were safe ; she was dazed, bewildered, but her 
one thought was that no one must know. Some one spoke 
to her, and she looked up stea-dily, crowding down the 


132 


THAT GIRL Oi JOHNSON' 8. 


dumb terror in her heart. Dr. Dunwiddie was standing 
beside her with his hand on her arm. 

“What is it, Miss Johnson?” he asked, with more than 
kindness in his voice as he bent above her, his black eyes 
searching her pallid face. “Was it so sudden that you 
were startled ? I should have been more thoughtful. ” 

She started involuntarily. 

“You heard them, then?” she whispered, her face grow- 
ing stony in its icy pallor. “I knew some one would hear 
them some time in spite of all I could do. ” 

An indescribable expression came over the doctor’s face ; 
he led her away from the bed and out of the room without 
a word. 

“Mrs. Allen,” he said, quietly, “you will take my place 
for a few minutes. Miss Johnson must breathe some of 
this pure, sweet air after the storm. ” 

He opened the door and stepped down on the door-stone, 
with Dolores standing listlessly in the door- way, never 
showing that he had seen the flitting expression of — was it 
triumph? — on the woman’s face as she passed into the si- 
lent bedroom. 

Through the rent clouds the stars shone brightly ; the 
scent of the pines was strong and invigorating; down 
among tho branches the wind stole softly laden with their 
breath ; the voice of the river came up softened by dis- 
tance ; the night was so still that the deep breathing of the 
cow in the shed was distinctly heard. In the silence and 
hush the girl’s face grew grave and quiet. 

“How pleasant everything is after the storm,” said Dr. 
Dunwiddie, with a smile, as he entered the house a few 
minutes later. Adding to himself as he re-entered the 
room beyond ; 

“ It was over-fatigue, and shall not happen again. And 
I think you will bear watching, as well as some others, 
Mrs. Allen.” 


TEAT GIBL OF JOHNSON' E 


133 


1 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


THE FREAKS OP A WOMAN. 

The sunlight flooded the mountains and the quiet settle- 
ment ; the sky was deeply blue ; the pines along the bank 
beside Dolores’ window stirred softly in the low wind that 
stole down from the summit laden with spicy odors. Down 
in the valley the river ran riot, shouting its jubilate as it 
swirled under the rotten bridge and whirled in mad eddies 
up the coarse grass along its banks. 

The chickens came out of their sheds and combed their 
draggled feathers in front of the door where the sun was 
warmest ; ope or two of the bravest roosters mounted the 
rickety fence, and crowed shrilly to the waking world. 
Brindle lowed restlessly, waiting to be milked. Smoke 
curled from the chimneys here and there in gray wreaths, 
floating airily up and up, borne by the sweet, low wind. 
Windows and doors were open to let in the freshened air 
and sunlight after the storm. Out in the sheds the men 
were milking, or drawing water from the wells, while the 
lean cows pressed around for drink with jostle and jingle 
of bells. 

Up from the long, low tavern a girl’s voice floated in 
song. Uncultured and rude were the tones, and rough the 
words she sang, but the sweet, low wind caught them and 
softened them almost to beauty. Cinthy was setting the 
table with clatter and wayward movements, intensified just 
then, for Dr. Dunwiddie was standing in the doorway fac- 
ing the Johnson house, with a half smile on his lips. The 
girl was singing when he entered, and with a faint trace of 
bravado or stubbornness, she would not pause in her song. 
She was not an ill favored girl ; her hair was light and 
curly, twisted tight in a knot at the back of her head ; her 
eyes were soft and blue, though possessing little intelli 


134 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON^ 8. 


gence ; her mouth was large and stolid, after the manner of 
her parents, but it was fresh and red as a cherry. Her 
arms were hare to the elbows and red from rough work and 
exposure to wind and sun, but they were plump and round, 
with a hint of dimples at the elbows. 

Dr. Dunwiddie stood in the doorway smiling to himself 
at the girl’s half defiant singing, his eyes on the low, un 
painted house just up the rugged road, with the rickety 
fence around it, and the faint curl of smoke stealing up from 
the crumbling chimney. Dolores stepped out on the door- 
stone with the milk pail on her arm, the chickens fiocking 
around her ; her head was bare, and the sunlight fell on it 
caressingly. The house was in full view of the tavern, 
though the road curved twice between them, and the 
bushes along the roadside were thick and high. 

Dolores called to Brindle, and the cow came obediently 
out of her shed. When she was milked, and the pail car- 
ried into the pantry, Dolores went out to the well and drew 
water for the cow ; she fed the chickens and pig, and paused 
in the sunny door-way. Her work for the day was 
finished, and she lingered idly. The pines stirred up on 
the banks beside her, and she lifted her face to the odorous 
wind stealing through the thick branches. The chickens 
picked among the pine needles, strewn like a carpet over 
the grass, as they strayed out through the underbrush to 
the slope beyond. Brindle was browzing with deep, con- 
tented breathing and an occasional tinkle of her new bell 
along the roadside, her lean sides fairly steaming in the 
warmth of the rising sun. The mist was breaking up, and 
wavering, fioating away from the opposite mountain, 
leaving in distinct outlines against the blue of the heavens, 
the ragged ledges and rocks, and lofty, pine-crowned sum- 
mit. Even the gleam of the river was visible down in the 
valley, as it wound along at the foot of the mountain, 
shouting in turbulent voices. 

Dr. Dunwiddie, standing in the door- way of the tavern, 
with the sound of Cinthy’s singing in his ears, inhaling 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON^ S. 


135 


deep draughts of the odorous, piny air, watched Dolores 
with grave, intent eyes until she turned from the door- way 
and entered the quiet house ; then he turned away, and 
no one ever knew of what he was thinking, or the thoughts 
that would come of his friend over in the town who was 
leaving this girl in his care with the utmost confidence— 
the girl, he well knew, whom Charlie loved. And should 
he betray his trust to his friend ? Should he prove a trai- 
tor ? Should he let this kindly feeling for this brave, beau- 
tiful, womanly girl grow into more than merely friendly 
feeling, knowing of his friend’s thought of the girl. Could 
he be capable of that ? She was, to be sure, a wonderful 
girl, shut in by her surroundings, but growing mentally 
thousands of miles beyond them. She was a woman a man 
should be proud to own as a friend — and more — in spite of 
her strange, unfriendly life in the stolid little mountain 
settlement. But — and there was a graver line of thought, 
a sudden deepening of the lines of nobility around the set 
mouth under the black mustache — would the love of even 
such a woman atone in any degree for the loss of manhood, 
the stain of a tratior ? Charlie had left in his hands the 
care of the girl he loved, and he would never — he 
straightened himself up to his full height in the low door- 
way and unconsciously clenched his hands — he would 
never betray his friend. Charlie was worthy even Dolores 
Johnson, and he would never be guilty of even an attempt 
to come between him and the woman he loved, be she 
though she might a woman with the strength and depth 
and nobility of character which the daughter of this moun- 
tain blacksmith possessed. 

Then he turned, and the face was as grave, as apparently 
unconcerned as usual, as Cinthy called him to join the 
family at the table. 

Jones said among his comrades that Johnson’s ill luck 
had brought good luck to him, for during the years he had 
lived there, never before had so many such men as now 
sought his lodging. 


136 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’S, 


Cinthy was stolidly silent ; she did not speak once at the 
table ; she ate her meat in the awkward manner among 
them. Once, when Lodie paused in the door- way in pass- 
ing, taking his cow to better pasture, and spoke to them, 
her cheeks deepened in their color, but she did not raise 
her eyes, and ate her breakfast in silence. When the 
meal was over. Dr. Dunwiddie arose, and, as was his habit, 
returned to the house up the road to see to his patient’s 
condition, and found that Johnson had slept through the 
night scarcely stirring, still as a baby. Things were going 
well to help on his recovery; and though it would be 
months before he could be able to get around, yet there 
was every hope and every reason to expect him to recover. 

And as he walked again up the road between the drip- 
ping pine branches lining each side of the way, his thoughts 
were busy about the girl, and mingled with others of her, 
were those of her strange behavior the previous evening 
when told of her father’s probable recovery. 

“It’s a puzzle,” he said to himself, as he opened the 
rickety gate ; “ but, like all puzzles, it will doubtless be 
solved. These stolid people in this half dead settlement 
away from the outside world, are unused to excitement. 
Dolores,” he lingered over the name only for an instant, 
“ Dolores has had plenty of it in the past few days, enough 
to turn any one’s head, no matter how steady they are, 
and the riddle will solve itself. I have no time, and must 
take no time to solve riddles or the odd, nervous freaks of 
a woman — even such a woman as you, Dolores Johnson.” 


THAT QIBL OF JOHNSONH. 


137 


CHAPTER XXX 

INCIDENTS. 

J ohnson moved and opened his eyes slowly as Dr. Dun- 
widdie entered the room. Dolores was standing beside the 
window which she had just raised, and pulled aside the lit- 
tle half curtain to let in the cool air. She turned, as the 
doctor entered, with her slow, listless air, her lips set with 
a touch of sadness, her eyes larger and darker than usual. 
As she turned them from the window they rested on her 
father’s face. His eyes were open, wandering aimlessly 
around the room ; they paused when they reached her face. 
Vacant, hollow eyes they were, with a stare in them which 
startled her. 

Dr. Dunwiddie was at his side instantly, but without a 
sign of haste. 

“He is used to your voice,” he said to Dolores, without 
turning his head. “Speak to him. Miss Johnson. Say any- 
thing to him — anything you are in the habit of saying. ” 

Dolores came no nearer the bed ; she stood quietly at the 
window, and asked in her ordinary voice, slow, uninter- 
ested : 

“ Are you ready for breakfast, father ?” 

The hollow eyes closed weakly for a moment. The girl’s 
solemn eyes, with the searching soul behind them, over- 
powered the weaker eyes and smaller soul. Mrs. Allen en- 
tered at that moment with the beef tea, and Dolores, tak- 
ing the bowl from her hand, crossed over to the bedside. 
Johnson again opened his eyes with the old expression of 
distrust and dislike in them. She bent over him, and Dr. 
Dunwiddie raised his head a trifle gently on his arm as 
she put the spoon to his lips with steady hand and un- 
moved face. But when she offered him the second spoon- 
ful he closed his eyes and endeavored to turn aside his 


133 


THAT OIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


head, with the sullen expression on his face. Mrs. Allen 
glanced quickly at the girl with a touch of pity on her 
face, but Dr. Dunwiddie looked up into the steady, un- 
moved face, saying, with a half smile : 

“ Invalids have queer freaks, but he must have the tea. 
Let Mrs. Allen try. Miss Johnson.” 

Dolores neither replied nor gave place to the nurse ; she 
bent over the bed and held the spoon steadily to his lips, 
as she said, in a tone that thrilled her listeners by its slow, 
almost stern sweetness : 

“ Drink this, father. ” 

He obeyed like a child, and she fed him carefully accord- 
ing to the doctor’s orders. When that was finished she 
brought warm water and a sponge and bathed his face. 
Then while Dr. Dunwiddie still raised his head on his arm 
she slipped a fresh pillow under his head and carried the 
other to the outer room. Dr. Dunwiddie watched her 
movements wonderingly. Where did this girl get her 
womanly tact ? Surely not from this man upon the pillows, 
whose face was indicative of nothing but a brute nature. 
There was not a touch upon it of the rare purity and ten- 
derness in the face of the girl, his daughter. Ay, she was 
worthy his friend. There should nothing come between 
them if it were in his power to avoid it. How could he for 
one instant have thought otherwise ? 

It was an exquisite morning. Mrs. Allen was with the 
doctor, there was no need of her there, and she went out 
and sat on the door-stone in the shadow of the pines. 
Leaning her head against the door-post her hands fell to 
her lap. The opposite mountain showed distinctly against 
the blue heavens — green, with odorous pines, and gray 
with the bold, sharp ledges, while here and there a stray 
flag of mist fluttered to and fro. 

The girl’s eyes were intent on the mountain with a sort 
of hungry look in them. It had meddled so with her life 
— or was it the fate of the stars that crippled her father 
and prevented his going to court where the men were 


TSaT Glut OPJOMSON*^. 


m 


©agei* to nave him, like the vulture on the mountain. She 
knew little of fate or law, but it seemed to her that the 
one possessed her^ and the other was waiting, waiting in a 
terrible silence for her father to go to prove the malice 
prepense in the laming of the mare— a waiting that ap- 
palled her by its dogged patience. What her neighbors 
thought she did not care ; she had lived without them ; 
she could still live without them. Had she known how 
roughly they used her name she would scarcely have under- 
stood their meaning. Her mind was too pure and too high 
above them to comprehend the evil they would lay at her 
door. Lodie, among them all, was the only kind one. Not 
one of the women had been near her, but the women never 
did come ; she cared nothing about that, only there was 
something in her life that had not been there before and 
that called for companionship, for the sympathy of other 
women. But Dora would come, she thought, with sudden 
brightness in her heart — Dora and her uncle, and young 
Green as well, until — until the truth were known. Then, 
what would they think or say — Dora and her uncle, who 
were honorable people, the nurse said, and young Green 
who had been so kind to them — so kind ? Did he not risk 
his life for her father? Yet even then he must have known 
about the mare and by whom the deed was done. Did he 
not tell her himself that the man who had committed such 
a dastardly deed should suffer the full penalty of the law ? 
And the law had a terrible significance to her. 

Lodie came slouching up the path, tall, gaunt, angular, 
in the full glory of the sunlight. He removed his rusty 
hat as he stood before her, his hands behind his back. 

“I ’low ther storm hev done tol’rable,” he said, awk- 
wardly, shifting from one foot to the other, though his eyes 
met hers squarely. 

She knew he did not come just to say that, but she re- 
plied simply in the affirmative. 

“Be yer feyther gettin’ on tol’rable, D’iores? I kem up 


140 


THAT OIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


hyar from ther tav’n ter hear. We ’lowed he orter be im- 
provin’, an’ wes waitin’ ter know.” 

“Who are waiting to know ?” she asked, sharply. The 
tone was new to her, and the man was disconcerted by it. 
A vague fear had entered her mind in spite of Mrs. Allen’s 
assurance that they would not come for her father until he 
was able to go to prove — 

“Why, jes’ we uns,” Lodie replied, clumsily. “He were 
a good un ’mong us, was yer fey ther, D ’lores, an’ wes jest 
waitin’ ter know ef he in improvin’. Et’s no light theng 
hev hap’d yer feyther, an’ wes special int’rested ter know. 
’N Cinthy sent these hyar posies ter ye. She ’lowed mebby 
ye might like ’em. ” 

He brought one hand slowly around from behind his 
back, and held toward the girl with half comical, half 
pathetic awkwardness, a huge bunch of gaudy hollyhocks. 
She took them from him with a faint flush of pleasure on 
her face as she said, slowly : 

“ Thank you, Jim Lodie. It was thoughtful of Cinthy. 
You can tell those who wish to know that my father will 
get well.” 

A flash came into Lodie’s eye, a deep red rushed to his 
sunburned face. 

“I be powerful glad ter hev ye say thet, D ’lores,” he 
said, gravely. “An’ ther rest of ’em’ll be glad of et, too.” 

She watched him shuffle down the path and along the 
road toward the tavern, and then her eyes fell to the flow- 
ers in her lap and rested there. They were gaudily colored 
flowers, but it was not of their color she thought as she 
sat listlessly enough, holding them there, but of the 
strange kindness that had prompted the girl to send them 
to her. 

Presently two light hands were laid on her shoulders, 
and a soft, low voice exclaimed : 

“ Dolores, Dolores, I am Dora. Look up and tell me you 
are as glad to see me as I am to have found you. I am so 
glad, Dolores.” 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S.': '^1, 141 

Dolores’ fingers closed tightly around the flowers in her 
lap as she looked up at the girl before her — the cousin who 
had come to claim her, the only one in all the world who 
had ever loved her since Betsy Glenn died. She was a 
small little lady, and neatly dressed from the wide- 
brimmed white hat with its drooping gray plume, to the 
blue ribbon around her throat, and the soft gray costume 
and delicate gloves. Her yellow hair was gathered under 
the broad hat, with here and there a stray curl peeping 
truantly upon her forehead ; her eyes were wide and gray, 
dark with excitement, soft with a touch of tears; her 
mouth was gentle and sweet, but the lips were colorless ; 
her small oval face was white as death save for a faint 
trace of feverish color upon either cheek. 

Dolores knew nothing of the nature of Dora’s disease, 
and to her the girl was a picture — something to look at 
and love and admire, but too fair to touch. Her eyes grew 
luminous as she looked at her. The brown eyes and the 
gray met. Dolores’ lips parted in one of her rare smiles 
that transformed her face for the moment ; her eyes were 
like wells of light, beautiful, unfathomable. 

Young Green was standing behind Dora. During the 
time he had known Dolores never had she looked like that ; 
it was a revelation to him of what she was capable. He 
could not take his eyes from her face, and it was graven 
upon his memory and his heart, never to be forgotten. 
She did not see him ; she saw nothing but Dora, and it 
was uncommon for women to show such marvelous depth 
of soul to another woman. Dora saw no one but her 
cousin. They did not kiss each other ; they offered no en- 
dearment common to women, but Dora sat down on the 
door-step beside Dolores, and slipped her hands among the 
flowers in her lap. 

“ I am so happy !” she said. 

Dolores said nothing. Her eyes talked for her. 

Young Green, with a feeling that he had no right to be 
there, passed unnoticed around to the rear of the house, 


/ 


142 THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON* S. / . 

and entered through the low door of the pantry. Mrs. 
Allen heard him enter ; it seemed sometimes that she had 
ears for everything. She opened the bedroom door and 
beckoned for him to enter. The outer door was to the 
right of the bedroom door, and she did not see the two 
girls on the door-step. Green passed in and closed the 
door that she should not see. He could never account for 
his dislike of Mrs. Allen. 

Dr. Dunwiddie greeted him with a smile, but he did not 
speak, as he was busy with the bandages on Johnson’s 
arm. Mrs. Allen told him that Johnson had waked con- 
scious the night before and slept naturally until morning ; 
that he had been awake some little time that morning, and 
would doubtless sleep as soon as the doctor finished with 
the bandages. Green was standing with her at a little 
table used for medicine, away from the window ; Dr. Dun- 
widdie had his back to them, between Green and J ohnson. 
On preparing one of the bandages he stepped aside, and at 
that moment Johnson slowly opened his eyes upon young 
Green’s face. He was conscious, and his eyes had the old 
look in them excepting that it was intensified by their hol- 
lowness. A change swift as death swept over the gaunt 
face. Johnson hated young Green ; he hated him with a 
narrow, unreasoning hatred. His face grew ghastly in its 
pallor, then livid with fury ; the close set eyes under the 
narrow forehead were wild and blood-shot; instinctively 
the fingers of his right hand were feebly clenched as ho 
endeavored to lift himself from among the pillows, un- 
mindful of the pain, as he cried, in a hoarse whisper, be- 
tween panting breaths : 

“Ye hyar? Fool, with yer — lamin’ an’ — yer books. I 
sweared I’d get even — with ye — fer te — ef ever — ye — kem 
hyar— agen, a-settin’— my gal up— ter thenk— herself bet- 
ter’n— her feyther a-turnin’ her head— with yer— foolin’ 
an’— yer soft words— as though— ye’d look et— a— smith’s 
darter fer — no good — ” 

Young Green started to speak, but Dr. Dunwiddie, with 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 


143 


a stern expression on his face which his friend had never 
before seen, said, with quiet authority : 

“Be quiet, Johnson. Not another word. Charlie, go into 
the other room. Mrs. Allen, help me at once ; his excite- 
ment has brought on hemorrhage. ” 

As Green closed the door behind him he caught a glimpse 
of Johnson’s face that he never forgot. It was palild as 
death and ghastly with the hollow eyes. Horror and 
amazement mingled in his face as he noiselessly crossed 
the room and passed out of the house through the pantry 
at the rear, without disturbing the two on the door-step, 
and struck out among the pines beyond toward the summit 
where the winds were soft and the sky blue and still. 
Peace was around him, and silence, save an occasional call 
of a wood dove, or the drowsy humming of insects. Butter- 
flies flashed before him, and yellow bees boomed around 
him, and now and then the clack of a cow bell among the 
freshened grass. 

He walked as one dealt a stunning blow and was dazed ; 
he stumbled among the undergrowth and staggered as one 
drunken with wine ; his face was white and set ; his kindly 
blue eyes had grown keen as one who sees far and clear. 

Brindle, standing ankle deep in the soggy leaves and 
mosses, cropping a few stray sprigs of long clover topped 
with blossoms that had grown above their brothers, looked 
at him with her grave eyes as he passed ; her bell swung 
with a slight tinkle, and then was still. He did not see 
her ; had he seen her he would have recognized her from 
any other cow. He saw nothing around him clearly ; his 
thoughts, in a tumult, were in the little bare room of the 
house below where the strong man, who had just been 
brought back from death, lay in his repulsive fit of pas- 
sion ; and with the mare in the stables at home, the beauti- 
ful, intelligent animal, ruined forever through a cowardly 
act of malice ; the two blending so closely that he could 
not separate them, mingling with the stray words he had 


144 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’S 


heard in the town of other and darker things than he had 
dreamed. 

Then, like a touch of peace, came the thought of the two 
girls on the door-step, two such lovely, womanly girls, 
each with a noble soul, yet totally unlike, the one whose 
life had been set in among the grand mountains touched 
with their grandeur and nobility of thought and life, and 
to him the purest, most tender of women, the other prov- 
ing her tenderness through all her life in the heart of the 
big city with its temptations and its evils. 

And by and by, soothed by the peace of the woods and 
the pines, he returned to the long, low house in the midst 
of the weedy garden. 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON* 8, 


146 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

DOLORES AND DORA. 

“And you found Uncle Joe when every one else had 
given up the search,” said Dora, softly, her eyes full of 
loving admiration. “How brave you are, Dolores. I 
would never have had the courage to do it, but then I’m 
not brave anyhow. ” 

“ Why shouldn’t I do it ?” Dolores asked, quietly, turning 
her large eyes wonderingly upon her companion. “ He is 
my father.” 

“ Of course he is,” Dora replied, with a nod of her bright 
head, untying the broad ribbons of her hat and swinging it 
around upon her knees. “ Papa is my father, too, Dolores 
Johnson, and I love him ; but I would never have enough 
courage to go off on a lonely, dangerous mountain to find 
him if he were lost — no, not if I had a dozen men to go 
with me. Suppose you had slipped over one of those terri- 
ble ledges Mr. Green told us about, or walked right off into 
a chasm when you thought you were in the path ? No, I 
couldn’t do it, ever, but I wish I were brave like you.” 

Dolores said nothing, because she had nothing to say. 
Dora must be a coward if she would not do that for her 
father ; any of the women of the settlement would have 
done the same. 

“ If you were at home, ” Dora continued, with a loving 
little pat on the hand she held in hers, “ they would have 
you in the papers ; they would head the article ‘Unprece- 
dented Bravery ; Marvelous Courage ; The Act of a Nine- 
teenth Century Girl that Would Do Credit to the Roman 
Maidens of Historic Times ! ! I A Beautiful Damsel Risks 
Her Life to Save Her Father; Her Efforts Crowned 
With Success ! ! !’ Doesn’t that sound like something, 
Dolores ? And you’d have a string of reporters at your 


146 


THAT qihl of JOmSOHH. 


keek, erowding Upon you, each endeavoring to outdo the 
feet in an elaborate and startling report. They’d walk in 
Upon you at all times ; your private room would be no 
guard against them ; they'd enter while you were at meals 
and stare at you to see how you ate ; they’d send up their 
cards with a flourish before you were well out of bed ; 
they’d haunt you like evil spirits. You’d be tempted to 
wish that you had let your father die, or send one of the 
servants to And him. You’d be nearly killed with kind- 
ness ; your steps and your parlors would be the witnesses 
of all sorts of scenes from curiosity seekers ; they would 
entreat you for a lock of your hair, or a button from your 
dress, or a ribbon — anything by which to remember such a 
remarkable creature as you had made of yourself. And 
then you tell me you have done nothing as calmly as 
though you were speaking of donning a bonnet. ” 

Dolores began to think she would not like Dora’s world. 

“Mr. Green told us all about you,” Dora continued ; “ and 
I wished so much to get at you, but you would not C3me to 
me, and I could not come to you, and then the rain — oh, 

‘ the rain it raineth every day, ’ and I began to think I 
would have to wait a week at least, and the things Mr. 
Green told me about you when he returned from here 
made me all the more restless and anxious to get at you, 
you poor dear. ” 

“He saved my father,” Dolores said, presently. She said 
it slowly, as though she were forced to say it. 

Dora nodded. 

“I know it,” she said; “the man who came over for 
the doctors told us about it, but you saved him more than 
any one else, Dolores, and you cannot deny it. They’d 
never have thought of going over there to look after the 
deputies gave up the search had it not been for you.” 

“The deputies?” Dolores repeated, slowly. The softened 
color and gentle expression disappeared from her face ; she 
drew her hands away from Dora’s clinging Angers ; she 
pushed back the hair that had slipped down on her fore- 


147 


TEAT GIRL OF JOEKSOE^S. 

head. Her eyes took on their old inscrutable expression ; 
one could get no deeper than the surface ; her lips showed 
no sign of smiling. Then the deputies had been searching 
for her father. That was what those men were there for 
that morning when they stopped and asked of her where 
he was. They staid long at the tavern ; all the men of 
the settlement were over at the town; Mrs. Jones and 
Cinthy only were at the tavern. Mrs. Jones could talk, 
and she, like the other women, did not like her, and Cinthy 
—Cinthy obeyed her mother in all things. Perhaps when 
she sent those flowers her mother did not know for whom 
they were intended. Lodie was at the tavern a good deal, 
and Lodie was in good standing in the settlement; his 
place was the largest next to the tavern, and he had more 
cattle and had prospered more in most ways. He would 
be a “ catch” for any of the girls of the settlement, and 
Mrs. Jones favored him in consequence. In his rough way 
he was fond of flowers, and Mrs. Jones may have thought 
them intended for him. 

And if those men of the law came for him when he was 
not there, when every one knew that he was not there, and 
sought for him over on the opposite mountain among its 
dangers, would they not come at any time for him to 
prove their case ? Might they not even insist upon taking 
him over to the town in spite of his condition ? What 
could stand in its way when once it was aroused, the men 
of the settlement said. Unconsciously her fingers closed 
over the flowers in her lap, crushing them relentlessly. 

Two soft hands released the flowers, and as Dora wiped 
away the red stains of the blossoms from her cousin’s 
hands she said, with a sweet laugh : 

“ Dolores, what is the matter ? See what you have done 
to the poor, pretty flowers— you have killed them ; their 
blood is on your hands, and your hands have stained mine. ” 

The effect of her words on Dolores was startling. She 
drew away her hands sternly and arose to her feet, clutch- 
ing the door-post to steady herself ; her face was white, 


148 


T^AT GIRL OF JOHNSONS, 


and her eyes wide and terrified. Young Green, returning 
from up the mountain, heard Dora’s last words and turned 
away with a face as pallid as Dolores’. 

Dora arose quickly, and clasped her hands around her 
cousin’s arm. raising her sweet, penitent face to hers. 

“Dolores, Dolores, I did not mean that — I was only jok- 
ing — I could not have meant it — I would not have said 
such a thing for the world— I forgot you were not used to 
me, and — ” 

The words ended in a violent fit of coughing that racked 
the slender frame pitifully. Raising her handkerchief to 
her lips she sank upon the step. 

Dolores did not touch her ; she stood erect, watching her 
with cold eyes, offering no word of comfort or aid. She 
seemed turning into stone. 

Young Green, watching, felt his heart die within him as 
she stood there with the sunlight on her head, the tender 
face set rigildy, the unfathomable eyes giving place to a 
spirit of stone. Then he entered the house unnoticed and 
spoke to Mrs. Allen, who came out at once and sat down 
beside Dora, placing her arm around her with low, tender 
words of comfort. 

“My poor girl— my poor Dora. Just lay your head right 
here on nursie’s shoulder and rest.” 

Dora obeyed like a child ; she was white and trembling, 
and her hands fell helplessly in her lap. 

Dolores was more helpless than Dora. She would have 
helped her if she could, but she could not. 

Young Green came out with a cup of water, and Mrs. 
Allen thanked him with a grateful glance, but as she took 
it and placed it to Dora’s lips she glanced at Dolores, and 
her glance was full of hate ; while young Green himself for 
the moment dared not meet her eyes for fear of betraying 
what was in his mind and heart. 

“Will she lie down and rest?” asked Dolores, presently, 
still standing at a distance from her, speaking as though 
her lips were stiff. 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


149 


At sound of her voice Dora opened her eyes slowly and 
looked up at her with a faint smile ; but Mrs. Allen, with- 
out replying, motioned to Charlie, who, understanding her 
wish, crossed over to the bedroom and tapped lightly on 
the door. Dr. Dunwiddie opened it at once, and after a 
whispered word or two he went out to the girl while young 
Green entered the quiet room. 

Johnson lay in a stupor among the pillows, his sunken 
eyes closed, his cruel lips apart, showing the discolored 
teeth within ; his short white hair was coarse and thin, 
and lent additional repulsiveness to the narrow face. The 
young man stood at the bedside looking long and earnestly 
at the face of the other, until the expression of wonder and 
horror slowly gave place to one of pity. 

“ Poor fellow, ” he said to himself ; “ poor fellow ! Surely 
he has suffered enough already ; why not leave him in 
peace to God and his conscience ? ‘ Forgive as ye would be 
forgiven. ’ Friend, go in peace. Truly, I have need of for- 
giveness, and should not pull down the bridge over which 
I myself must pass. But how such a woman as she could 
have come from such a nature as his is a problem. No 
truer woman is living than Dolores Johnson, in spite of 
her many disadvantages ; she must be a type of her mother 
or some other branch of the family. My poor, tender- 
hearted girl, how she suffered just now and I could do 
nothing !” 

His brows contracted in a frown, and his eyes were full 
of bitterness as he turned from the bed to the window, his 
thoughts on many things, but most of all upon the few 
words softly spoken of the utter hopelessness of his ever — 

Dr. Dunwiddie meanwhile went out to the group in the 
sunny door- way. His grave, dark face was full of kind- 
ness as he bent over the frail girl, and spoke to Mrs. Allen. 

“She must lie down at once,” he said, “and be kept per- 
fectly quiet for a while. No, you must not walk,” as she 
attempted to rise. “Allow me, Miss Johnson.” 

He raised her in his arms as though she were in truth a 


150 


THAT OIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


child, and carried her to the settle between the south win- 
dows, where Mrs. Allen spread wraps and fetched pillows 
to make her comfortable. And as she lay among the pil- 
lows, looking far too white and delicate with her pallid 
face and colorless lips, and smooth, blue-veined forehead. 
Dr. Dunwiddie stooped and untied the pale blue ribbon 
from around her throat. 

“It is pretty,” he said, smiling, as she opened her eyes 
questioningly upon his kindly face, “ but you must not wear 
these again. Miss Johnson, until I say you may.” 

Her white lips half parted in an answering smile, so full 
of quiet self-control and sweetness the man’s heart ached, 
knowing how she was suffering, but she did not speak 
until Mrs. Allen brought her beef tea and fed her with ten- 
der care ; then, half rising among the pillows, whiter than 
they, she asked faintly with a wistfulness in her eyes that 
sent an angry pang through the woman’s heart ; 

“Where is — Dolores — Nurse Allen? I — want — Dolores.” 

Since her husband’s death years before Mrs. Allen cared 
for no one as she did for Dora. Her love was a selfish 
love ; she could not bear that another should come between 
her and her girl ; she could not bear the thought that some 
day Dora might find some one who would call out her affec- 
tion as she never could ; that some day she must give place 
to some other. That Dolores as a woman would gain a 
hold upon the girl’s warm heart as she never could, she 
knew from the first and knew with growing bitterness and 
hatred for the quiet, tall girl whose soul was so far above 
hers that she could never hope to attain the height. She 
hated her with a hatred that grew with every day, with 
every evidence of the girl’s deep nature and beautiful 
character, the character which Dora in her tenderness and 
sweetness must appreciate as she could never appreciate 
the care she herself gave to her. She hated the girl, and 
her voice was full of this as she called to her sharply, in a 
voice that caused Dora to look up at her in wonder : 

“Come in at once, Dolores ; Dora wishes you,” 


that QIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 151 

Dr. Dunwiddie hearing the words and catching sight of 
the woman’s face, crossed the room and spoke to Dolores, 
his voice low with kindness. She was standing with her 
back to the door, her hands clasped before her, gazing 
steadily, with the far off look in her eyes, at the opposite 
mountain, the crushed flowers scattered at her feet, dying 
in the heat of the sun, staining the step with their warm 
colors. She started when he addressed her, and turned 
obediently with one swift, startled glance up into his face, 
and entered the room half hesitatingly. 

Dora put out her hand as she crossed the room. 

“Dolores I” she said, entreatingly. 

Dr. Dunwiddie turned quickly away and entered the 
inner room where his friend was waiting for him. 

By and by, when she was better, Dora sat up among the 
pillows, and drew Dolores down beside her, holding her 
hands caressingly between her own, smoothing the tense, 
slender Angers now and then with pathetic tenderness as 
though to atone or soften her careless, wounding words. 
She leaned her pure, pale face against the gray window 
casing that the soft, low wind with its subtle odor of pines 
should blow upon her. Her large gray eyes, grown black 
with a half shy love and pleading, rested on her cousin’s 
grave face. And she did not know that the slender shred 
of pale blue ribbon lay safely hidden in the depths of the 
doctor’s pocket as he re-entered the sick-room beyond. 

They talked long there at the cool south window, she, 
smaller girl, holding her cousin’s hands closely in hers, 
telling her of the world beyond the chained mountains, of 
the life that throbbed and pulsed out of her sight. 

“ And you live in that world ?” Dolores asked, when Dora 
had finished her description. 

“Yes,” and Dora smiled. “How you would enjoy it, 
Dolores. But you shall hear and see everything worth 
hearing and seeing when we go to the city. And you shall 
meet people worth meeting, to whom it is a pleasure simply 
to listen ; they will be friends at once, for you are just like 


152 


THAT OIRL 01 JOHNSON* S. 


them, only sweeter, and dearer, and truer. It is in you, 
dear ; can’t I see it plain as can be? You need not try to 
deny it. I knew it before I ever saw you, just from Mr. 
Green’s talks about you. How he admires you, Dolores ! 
And he is a friend worth having ; don’t ever forget that. 
You will meet plenty of men in the city, men who would 
die for one such glance as you can give if you choose from 
those great eyes of yours with the wonderful soul in them, 
but among them all Mr. Green, this friend of the mountain 
life of yours is as true and noble a man as you could wish 
to meet. Don’t ever let them turn your head, Dolores, 
dear ; only I know they couldn’t do it.” She laughed gayly, 
and patted the slender hands she held with sudden, swift 
tenderness. “I shall be so proud to introduce you as ‘my 
cousin,”’ she said. 

Presently she went on with her words of what they 
would do, they two, when they were home in the city, and 
Dolores listened in silence, wondering more and more how 
this girl could care to love her, could care to have her for 
her cousin. 

“We will paint together, Dolores,” she said, “and sew 
and play. You shall sing and I will accompany you on 
my guitar, and y6u shall sing and accompany yourself, for 
the guitar will just suit your voice ; and how you would 
look in an old gold gown with warm colored roses about 
you, playing a guitar, its broad ribbon across your shoul- 
ders, your eyes — just as they are now. Oh, such a soul as 
there is in them at this minute, Dolores Johnson ! The 
men will love you, and the women — must. Dolores, 
Dolores, I cannot wait. I wish I might take you right 
now.” 

She paused, breathless, smiling, sitting erect, holding 
Dolores by her two round arms, her sweet face flushed 
with excitement. 

“You should be more careful, Dora,” Mrs. Allen said, a 
note of harshness in her voice. Then she repented, and 


TEAT GIBL OF JOHNSON'S, I53 

suddenly going over to the girl, she touched her flushed 
cheeks tenderly. 

“In all the world there is no one like you,” she said. 
At that moment Dr. Dunwiddie opened the bedroom door 
and spoke to Mrs. Allen, and she entered with him, young 
Green coming out. 

Dora flushed as she saw him, and she aroused from the 
settle, shaking her head sunnily. 

“Mr. Green, I beg your pardon for detaining you~I do 
indeed. Truly, I did not think. Time has passed so quickly 
that I have been selflsh. And there is the carriage wait- 
ing, and you anxious to get back to court—” 

He appeared not at all inconvenienced ; he smiled re- 
assuringly at her as he said, when she paused : 

It has been pleasant to me also. Miss Johnson — so pleas- 
ant that I had forgotten the case on at eleven at home. It 
is now ten minutes of that hour, and if you will pardon my 
leaving you I will send the carriage for you at any time you 
name. ” 

Dolores did not move or speak. The case on hand. Her 
ears seemed sharp to catch and hold such sentences. These 
words only were clear, the rest were distant and jumbled. 
Even when he spoke to her she seemed incapable of hear- 
ing or replying. That her silence was caused by anything 
he said he did not imagine, but he was growing accustomed 
to her silence. 

“I wish I could stay with you always,” Dora said, softly, 
when the young man had gone, “but I cannot leave father,' 
Dolores, you know. You do not blame me, I am sure. And 
I will come over every day, or whenever I can. Father is 
anxious for Uncle Joe td get well, so we can accomplish 
what we wish. And I want to see him, too, of course, but 
I cannot now. He would not know me anyhow, and it is 
better to wait till he is well. Father would have come over 
with me this morning, but Judge Green wished him to be 
in court. They have a strange case on hand, and I am so 
interested in it ; aren’t you, Dolores? About the laming of 


154 


THAT GIBL OF JOHNSON'S. 


young Mr. Green’s beautiful mare, you know? He said you 
have seen her ; a splendid animal, and she actually seems 
to know what he says to her. He said he believes she has 
almost human intelligence, and if she only had the power 
of speech she could soon put an end to the trial. 

“I believe they have some new evidence to be heard this 
morning. Young Mr. Green was to have been there early 
to attend to some important matter before court opened, 
and here I have detained him. Every one in the town is 
interested and excited over the case ; the subject comes up 
for discussion at all times. They are indignant, of course, 
it is such a clear case of malice and intent to do injury to 
Mr. Green. Mrs. Green is a dear little old lady with the 
softest white hair under the softest of lace caps, with a 
voice as gentle as her face, but she also grows warm in de- 
nouncing the deed, though she pities the man who is guilty 
more than her boy, for the one has the consciousness of 
guilt and the other has not. Of course I pity him, too, but 
I think he should suffer for it. Where would be the pre- 
ventative of crime if there were no penalty ?” 

Still Dolores did not move or speak. In a vague manner 
the thought presented itself to her that one of the marble 
gods Dora had been telling her about could scarcely be 
more like stone than she, and she wondered, too, in that 
strange half sense if these marble men and women were 
capable of suffering as human men and women? And 
Dora continued in her low voice, rising and pulling Dolores 
by the hand for her to follow. 

“Let us go out of doors, cousin mine ; it is so beautiful 
there with the pines and the mountains. Were it not for 
the narrowed companionship I would choose this for my 
home always ; but one’s life shrinks smaller and smaller 
away from others, away from the refinements of society. I 
am fond of nature ; I feel as though God were very near in 
the silence of the hills, and ‘to be alone with silence is to 
be alone with God ;’ but I think he is somehow nearer in 
the hearts of his humanity. You have uot even a church 


THAT OIRL OF JOHNSON^ S. 


155 


here, Dolores. Why, what do you do with no church, nor 
schools, nor anything ?” 

And Dolores, driven at last to speak, with a few words 
Mrs. Allen had spoken by chance not long before returning 
to her with strange mingling with her other thoughts, that 
this son of the judge over in the town whom every one 
liked and respected, was a very good friend to have in 
time of need, but she must become accustomed to the kind- 
ness of people without imagining they were so specially 
kind to her or meant anything by their kindness, especially 
to her with her strange life and lack of what such a man 
would demand in a woman for whom he could care — 
Dolores, driven at last to speak, asked, mechanically : 

“Why should we have a church, and what is a church?” 


166 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 


CHAPTEE XXXII. 

time’s developments. 


f 


Johnson slowly recovered ; the days passed, and the 
weeks, while he lingered weak and complaining. Dolores’ 
presence annoyed him, and drove him to fits of temper, 
until Dr. Dunwiddie advised her to remain away from 
him as much as possible. To this, as to all such things, 
she said nothing ; she kept him supplied with everything 
she knew he preferred, for the larder was never scant now 
-—but she never entered the room unless he were sleeping, 
or it were necessray. 

Dr. Dunwiddie regularly drove over to see Johnson once 
a week, and Mrs. Allen remained in the low, unpainted 
house in the midst of its desolate garden, filling the rooms 
with her presence, but daily growing more hardened 
toward the quiet girl who was winning Dora’s affection 
away from her, she told herself, in excuse for her un- 
friendly feeling, but the girl herself, buried in other 
thoughts, believed it was from the kindness of her heart 
that she talked to her so often during the long evenings of 
the life outside of the quiet settlement and of the manners 
she would there be expected to copy, and she accepted in 
silence the many words of advice as to her lack of pride in 
allowing young Green to see so clearly her feelings toward 
him, and the cautioning uttered with a kindly smile or 
soft touch on her arm against allowing herself to be so in- 
fluenced by almost an utter stranger who was kind to her 
only out of pity, and who could never care for her other 
than as the merest acquaintance, she, the daughter of the 
blacksmith who was waited for to prove the malice in the 
laming of his mare. Soft little hints she gave of deeper 
meaning in her words, and she even in her desire to wound 
the girl could never conceive to what a depth of misery she 


THAT OIBL OF JOHNSON'S. 


167 


placed her, not with the words of young Green’s careless- 
ness of her — what had that to do with her, Dolores John- 
son ? — when there were other things to come before that, 
but of what might be meant by the hidden words of what 
must follow the proving of the case waiting in the town for 
her father’s presence. The woman knew well the stories 
adrift in the settlement that had somehow come to her she 
scarcely knew how herself, and of the girl’s dread of what 
might follow the proving of the case waiting in the town 
for her father’s presence. The woman knew well the stor- 
ies adrift in the settlement that had somehow come to her 
she scarcely knew how herself, and of the girl’s dread of 
what might follow the proving of the case. She knew he 
could not wound her more deeply then with light words of 
young Green’s thought of her; she discovered that, or 
thought she did, after the first, but this subject of the mare 
was a terrible one to her, and she would use it to the full. 
That the girl had never done her harm to cause this feeling 
of hatred she would not believe. Had she not won Dora’s 
heart in a fashion she could never do ? Could she accept 
this unmurmuringly ? Was there nothing she could do to 
hurt the girl in Dora’s eyes? And if that were impossible 
— and she soon learned that it was — was it impossible for 
her to wound the girl herself in every way conceivable to a 
narrow mind? She despised Johnson in her heart, yet she 
was proving herself on a level, even a lower level than his. 
She was doing it from the same motive, with more knowl- 
edge of what she was doing than he. But she hardened 
her heart, and would not listen to her conscience when it 
upbraided her for her willful cruelty. 

And as Dora kept to her word and drove or rode over 
every day when the weather was pleasant, and together 
they wandered under the pines in many a daring place, 
the color of increasing health slowly tinging the cheeks of 
each, while Dora’s cough grew less and less frequent and 
violent, and an added grace and spring showed in Dolores’ 
step, though there was a growing sadness upon her lips 


158 


THAT GIRL OF JOHKSON' 8, 


and a hunted look in the wide dark eyes that her friends 
could not understand, this woman gloried and exulted in 
her power to wound the girl Dora loved with a deeper, 
truer love than she could ever give to her, and she planned 
out many a subtle manner for wounding and sending her 
shafts deeper into the soul of the girl who was, she, told 
herself over and over, stealing away what rightfully be- 
longed to her. 

Sometimes when the winds were cool and the sky like a 
garment of blue abvoe the mountain world, they rode 
horses brought from the town, sometimes alone, sometimes 
accompanied by young Green, or Dr. Dunwiddie, or both, 
they always having, on such occasions, some plausible ex- 
cuse of danger to the girls or leisure of their own. And 
after a time they grew accustomed to Dolores’, to them, 
strange freaks and sudden moods, who refused at any time 
to mount a horse brought from Judge Green’s stables, and 
refused with such a horror on her face that it silenced 
any objection from the others, though Charlie often 
brought a graceful bay, the easiest rider in the place for 
her, but after a while they never asked the girl to ride her, 
but Dora was given the mount with no question as for 
whom she might have been intended, no joking about it, or 
laughter at the girl, for her grave, stern face would not 
admit of that. And in the eyes of the doctor, unconfessed 
but daily growing beyond doubt, no more perfect rider 
could the bay have had than the dainty little lady in her 
dark blue habit, her fair curls rumpled under the round 
low hat she wore, that left the sunny face in the full light 
that gave color and life to it with each added day. 

Many a pleasant day they passed together, many a pleas- 
ant talk, for all of them talked well, and Dolores listened 
until she, too, grew brighter, losing this shadow that 
seemed to envelop her very thoughts, and joined in the 
gay or grave conversations that came by snatches, with 
sweet bursts of laughter from the red lips of her cousin, 
with the deeper tones of the gentlemen, and occasionally 


THAT OIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


159 


a note of low laughter from her own lips, and always when 
she spoke, they gave her full attention, while Dora called 
her happily their queen and herself her lady-in-waiting, 
and the gentlemen her body guard. And to young Green 
these days were the red-letter days of his life, and the 
chance words dropped by the nurse in her snatches of con- 
versation with him on his visits to the room of the invalid, 
or when she and he were alone for a moment in the outer 
room, lost all meaning when he was in the presence of the 
girl herself, though they would return to him with deeper 
meaning and more bitterness in his quiet hours. Words 
that cut deeper than the woman knew passed in silence, 
as they always were, and with apparently making no im- 
pression whatever ; words that would follow his thoughts 
of the beautiful girl he could not help loving with a truer 
intensity every time he was with her, every time he 
thought of her noble life, her utter unselfishness, her mar- 
velous depth of soul — in spite of all he could do to try to 
drown them, to get them out of his mind. Words that were 
cruel in their apparently harmless utterance. Words of 
the life the girl must live when she should leave the settle- 
ment and the narrow life, and go into the broader world 
where she would grow out of everything she now was sur- 
rounded with, everything she now knew, everything she 
now believed the true meaning of life, even — and there was 
the soft tone entering the low, quiet voice, even the friends, 
if she had any, who knew her in this life of hers among 
the stupid, stolid mountains. She would grow out of 
everything and the remembrance of every one. Yet what 
right had he to question her right to forget him if she 
would ? What reason had he for believing she could care 
for him other than a mere friend in her time of need ? How 
could he think she would care for him — she the woman she 
was and he simply the man who loved her. He could give 
her the higher life of the mountains and a love she could 
never have more truly than he would give her, but she 
would — so this woman said — grow out of caring for this, 


160 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 


grow so far above him and his life that he could never 
hope for more than perhaps a kindly place in her remem- 
brance. And yet— these after thoughts came in his quieter 
moments when the world was very beautiful and the sky 
like a jewel above the mountains — yet Dolores Johnson, 
the womanly girl he knew, was not one to so easily forget 
a friend, to so easily give place in her remembrance to 
another where once a friend had been. She was a noble 
woman, and could ennoble his life ; why should he not at 
least make the attempt to win her for himself, for the 
quiet life among the stately mountains that had given her 
her nobility of thought, for the love he could give her — as 
true a love as any she could find in the world, he knew 
well. And then the words of hopelessness would return 
and sweep the other and braver words from his heart, and 
he would take up the bitter battle again with a face that 
was slowly changing even as the face of the girl he loved 
was slowly changing under the kindly words of the nurse, 
who was planning well for their unrest. 

But while these young people were living their lives and 
fighting their battles undreamed of by even their daily 
companions, Lemuel Johnson went often to see his brother, 
who grew civil to him after a while, though at first he was 
surly, and resented his brother’s long silence and neglect. 
Together they talked of the future, and laid many plans to 
be carried out as soon as Joe was a little better. 

Dr. Dunwiddie still positively affirmed that he would re- 
cover, but that this must needfully be slow, and Joe John- 
son was never possessed with patience enough to bear 
quietly much waiting. And as the days passed Dolores 
waited and waited, the dread fear shut in her heart, they 
would come for her father from the town. 

The subject of the mare was never mentioned among 
them ; it had dropped out of the house as suddenly and 
completely as though death had touched it ; that day Dora 
gave her cousin a sketch of the feeling regarding it in the 
town, though not one of them understood the girl’s horror 


THAT GIBL OF JOHNSON'S,] 161 

of it, excepting it might be the one who had seen the most 
of her emotion. Sometimes the girl was tempted to ask 
about it, but the dread of bringing down something worse 
upon herself and her father kept her silent to suffer alone. 

Yet no one came but those who were in the habit of com- 
ing. Lodie came every day as promptly as the time of 
milking, his slouching figure growing so familiar to Dolores 
that she would actually have missed it had he failed to 
appear in the door- way of the shed as she milked Brindle, 
whose lean sides were fattening under better feeding, while 
his slow voice questioning gravely had grown so accus- 
tomed to saying : 

“ Ded yer feyther sleep well las’ night, D’ lores? I kem 
outen hyar special ter know ef I ken see him a minute. ” 

And she was growing accustomed to answer mechani- 
cally, yet with a warm feeling in her heart for the big fel- 
low’s kindly interest ; 

“Thank you, Jim Lodie. My father slept well. Yes, you 
may see him.” 

And every morning when he was gone she grew in the 
habit of looking on the tiny window ledge beside the door 
for the bunch of flowers, sometimes hollyhocks, sometimes 
sweet wild roses or pinks that doubtless grew in the lot at 
the south of the tavern, pulled stealthily by Cinthy’s hand, 
in her willingness to please this strange, stolidly kind fel- 
low who was wooing her in this fashion, asking for her 
flowers to be given to the girl in the old house up yonder. 
And Dolores never looked in vain, for Cinthy’s heart was 
warm in spite of her mother’s anger should she discover 
this gift of her daughter. And she never saw more of this 
daughter of the tavern keeper than of the other women of 
the settlement, perhaps not even so much, for Mrs. Jones’ 
word was law to her daughter, and she spoke often of her 
in her gossip with her neighbors. But the destination of 
the flowers she knew nothing about and asked no ques- 
tions, for she favored the growing intimacy of her daugh- 
ter and Jim Lodie, and if Cinthy chose to give him her 


162 


THAT GIBL OF JOHNSON'S, 


flowers, when he stopped there of a morning, driving his 
cows to pasture, all well and good. Jim Lodie stood well 
in the neighborhood, and she had no fault to find. Had 
she known whose fingers placed them in water with many 
a kindly thought, and sent them to the little room where 
the invalid lay, not another flower would have fallen into 
her daughter’s hands, and Jim Lodie would have lost his 
full privilege in her house. 

But Johnson lingered along in much the same condition 
in spite of the interest of his friends or foes, from week to 
week, scarcely getting better, yet growing no worse. Dr. 
Dunwiddie knitted his brows and looked very grave and 
puzzled many a time after his visits ; he did not like the 
appearance of things ; they were going crooked ; some- 
thing must be done and at once. He did not wish to arouse 
the thought of such a thing in the minds of Johnson him- 
self or Dolores ; in fact he wished to keep it from Johnson 
more even than from his daughter, for he was in such an 
excitable state that it went much against his recovery — 
petulant, fault-finding, with many a word that showed his 
brute nature and cruelty. At or against Dolores and fate 
his anger and spleen were directed. Dolores was of no use 
— no earthly use in the world ; she was without even the 
sense of most women, and that was little enough. Had she 
been a boy things might have been different ; boys were of 
use. And it was not enough that this ill luck of her being 
a girl was upon him, but he must have this added to the 
rest — to bo laid up with not even the use of his feet or 
hands. Here he was, crippled, helpless, constantly in pain, 
scarcely able to move without pain, and there was his 
brother healthy, florid, a rich man, with a fine home and 
the comforts of life at his disposal. 

And what reason was there that his brother should have 
the gains and he the losses ? Was he not quite as deserv- 
ing and capable of appreciating them as he ? Fate Vas a 
powerful master, partial, and many times cruel in its de- 
crees. Life was a pretty tough thing anyway, scarce worth 


that QIItL OF J0ENS0W8, 163 

the living. To lie in that hole of a room day in, day out, 
was growing unbearable ; nothing to do but watch the bit 
of sky and mountain through the tiny window, the scent 
of the pines stealing through, or, closing his eyes, to think, 
think, think his narrow thoughts that never got away 
from the mountains, the smithy, the tavern, and the town, 
until he was driven nearly wild by the thoughts that no 
one else ever knew, though those who were with him most 
guessed near the truth. 

The thin face, grown pallid with confinement, would 
narrow and seem to contract, the small eyes, set deep and 
close together, grew cruel and cunning, the coarse mouth 
under the scant mustache, closed with sinister meaning. 
For hours he would lie in the same position, scarcely mov- 
ing, his long hands grown bony, clutching convulsively 
the bed covering. And to those who watched with eyes 
sharpened with interest all these actions were full of mean- 
ing, and proved much that had but been guessed before. 

As time went by the men at the tavern got over their 
stiffness and dropped in occasionally through the days, one 
or another, to have a chat with Johnson, but mainly to see 
how he bore his affliction and to know for themselevs how 
much better off that girl of Johnson’s was, since her 
father’s brother Lemuel — he who left the settlement 
years before — had returned. They said, after going, that 
it was more than she deserved, such a shiftless, no- ’count 
creature, like tho rest ef the family, except Lemuel, and 
so many of their girls were more deserving than she. And 
keeping watchful eyes on her, about the house and yard, 
or with Dora and young Green, they grew to dislike her 
more and more, because if possible she was more silent and 
disdainful of them than before, and was growing out of 
the life of the settlement where she had been born and 
where she should remain if she were true to her surround 
ings. Even the nurse was more willing than the girl to talk 
with them if they wished for information, though she, too, 
held a certain distance from them, as she could not fail to 


16 i 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S 

do. She was willing to do much to gain their views on 
many things, and she could be very kind and pleasant to 
them if she wished, but she still held her distance in such 
an undefinable way, but clearly felt by them, as she must 
do, being so totally out of their lives and their manners. 

Many an hour in the wide, low room at the tavern, or be- 
side the door of an evening, they discussed Johnson’s con- 
dition, and freely expressed their doubts and views as to 
his recovery in spite of Dr. Dunwiddie’s assertion to the 
contrary. They had heard of such happenings before, and 
knew pretty well the consequences, though just such a 
thing had not come within their lives. And it made no 
difference that Lemuel Johnson had come with his money 
and airs to put notions in his brother’s head and set him 
up in his own eyes, so that he talked high to them, as he 
was always inclined to do, and to make a bigger fool than 
ever of that girl of his brother. Had they not more than 
he with all his professions of importance ? While Dr. Dun- 
widdie, over in the town among his friends at Judge 
Green’s, also discussed Johnson’s condition, and decided 
with them that it was time something was done, and done 
speedily, or it would be too late. 

“Spare no pains nor expense, Dunwiddie,” urged Lemuel 
Johnson, pacing up and down the pleasant parlor at Judge 
Green’s, his hands clasped behind him, his florid face and 
kindly eyes full of anxiety. “Joe’s got a wonderful consti- 
tution ; always did have ; sinews like steel when we were 
youngsters. This illness has been heavy to bring him 
down so. Surely there is some way of hastening his re- 
covery, and we must find it — you must find it. He’s got 
to have a fair chance for a place in life, comfortable, like 
other men, and not end it all that way. Why, it’s death 
in life over yonder. It’s buried in a grave large enough to 
turn around in, but it isn’t life. No wonder he’s lost all 
ambition staying there with everybody around him duller 
and more listless than he, excepting of course Dolores. 
She’s a body one wouldn’t meet always. Joe doesn’t ap- 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON* 8. 


165 


preciate her because he’s incapable of judging out of such 
a batch of comrades as he’s got there. That Lodie’s a good 
jBnough sort of man — make an intelligent man if he had 
a chance — but, my powers 1 such a life for man or woman. 
Where I was born, too, and not a school-house or church 
in the place, and my own brother’s child ignorant of even 
the catechism or the existence of God. Do your best for 
him, Dunwiddie ; never mind the cost. Money is nothing 
compared to a life worth living. You start him on with a 
fair show of strength, and I’ll do the rest. He’s the only 
kin I have in the world — he and the girl — and the Lord 
knows there isn’t a man in the world who wouldn’t do all 
he could for such. Eh, Dora 


166 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON' 8, 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A SUDDEN MESSAGE. 

“Man alive !” exclaimed Lemuel Johnson, as he stood be- 
side his brother one morning, with Dr. Dunwiddie and Dr. 
Grey, explaining to him a plan by which they hoped to 
benefit his condition and hasten his recovery. “ Man alive, 
Joe !” exclaimed the excitable little man, thrusting his 
hands into his pockets, his fiorid face growing redder, his 
eyes sparkling with indignation. “ Have you no sense at 
all? Have you no pride, no common ambition to get well? 
To make a success of life ? Would you rather lie here, 
growing less and less capable of anything, like an indolent 
tramp, and keep on suffering straight ahead for years 
maybe, when by perfect care in this hospital, or infirmary, 
or whatever it is, in the city something may be done for 
you, and you would be set up like a new man ready for 
any position and to build up as good a home as any man 
living? Why, great Scott, Joe Johnson, if you are my 
brother and the only one I’ve got, I must say I’d be 
ashamed to own you if you refuse. ” 

The invalid was growing excited also. He struggled up 
to a sitting position, half reclining on his right arm, and 
glared at his brother as an infuriated animal at bay. 

“Et’d be nothin’ new ef ye was ’shamed o’ me,” he cried, 
the veins of his forehead swelling like cords, his small eyes 
glittering like serpents. “ Et’s no mor’n ye’ve done all yer 
life sence yer runned away ter make yer money a-many 
year ago. Ye left yer folks ter starve fer all’t ye’ve done 
fer ’em, tell jest now when ye kem hyar ter gloat owver 
me. I may be ’thout yer style o’ sense, Lem Johnsing, but 
I hev got ther common sense’ t ken tell beans when I sees 
’em. Ye needn’t make outen ’t ye don’t know what I 
means well’s I do, or them as hev lived hyar sence theys 


THAT GIBL OF JOHNSON'S, 


167 


borned. An’ theys ken tell’t ye left us ’thout nothin’ an’ 
outen yer life tell jest now when’t ain’t no use ; an’ es long 
es I’ve got breath ’nough left ter tell’t, I’ll jest say this. 
An’ I ain’t goin’ ter be put in no horsepital neither where 
a feller ken stay ferever, an’ folks’d never know but he’s 
dead an’ buried, ’stead O’ livin’ locked up in a cell like a 
crim’nal an’ kept thyar an’ never let out. Mebby et do 
run in thes fam’ly ter be shef’less an’ no ’count, but I hev 
es good sense es ye hev, Lem Johnsing, an’ I ain’t ter be 
tom-fooled like a woman.” 

Dr. Dunwiddie laid his strong hand on his shoulder, and 
spoke to him sharply. 

“Lie down,” he said, “man, and listen to us. We give 
you the choice. You shall have from now till to-morrow 
morning to consider ; after that will be too late. Choose 
one of two alternatives : Remain just where you are, from 
sheer stubborness and die, for die you must if you persist 
in this, and in such a slow, torturing manner as you cannot 
comprehend, or comply with our wishes that may doubtless 
be painful at first, and may even end fatally — I place it all 
before you, holding nothing back— but with ten chances to 
one of your recovery and a long life. 

“Remember you are not a child to be ruled by impulse 
and passion, but a man, and a man of whom much is re- 
quired with such muscles and cords as these. And do not 
forget that you have a life besides your own to care for, a 
life which owes to you its existence, to which, in conse- 
quence of this if for none other, you owe care and a home 
and such comforts as are in your power to give. Choose, 
man, but choose speedily, for life and death wait for little 
when one hangs in the balance against the other with but 
a hair’s breadth between.” 

Johnson’s face lost its defiance and cunning ; it grew 
livid and paled to a deathly hue. His sinister eyes were 
fixed on the doctor’s face with an expression of cowardly 
terror in them. His brother’s fit of violent temper he 
could meet with equal force, but Dr. Dunwiddie’s voice and 


168 


TMAT GIRL OF JOHNSON^ 8, 


manner bore as much weight as his words, which were ut- 
tered clearly and calmly, but which the man was unused 
to hearing, and which therefore impressed him more than 
they might have done otherwise, full of meaning and warn- 
ing as they were. 

He lay among the pillows with his face turned to the 
wall, motionless as though he were already dead, his 
sinewy right hand clutching the covering long after his 
brother and the doctors left, not knowing that through the 
half open door Dolores, from the outer room, was watching 
him with a face as set as his own. her hands clasped pas- 
sionately, her lips shut close to still the cry that arose from 
her heart, that found words only in a new, wild, inarticu- 
la,te prayer : 

“God, whom I know not, forgive him — forgive him.” 

But there was not a trace of this emotion upon her face 
or in her manner as she stood, a day or two after, at the 
west window of the library at Judge Green’s, the soft 
brown dress Dora had fitted for her, falling gracefully 
around her. Her large brown eyes were fixed on the 
brilliant sky above the mountain where the gold and crim- 
son of the sunset were flushing and paling like flags of 
gauze ; her pure, pale face touched by the glow and glim- 
mer, and her red lips parted as though with some thought 
she were half tempted to speak. She held back the lace 
draperies with one arm leaning against the casing of the 
large French window, and looked like a picture, so quiet 
she stood, flushed from the light of the sunset above. 

Dora was sitting on an ottoman at her feet, her delicate 
face raised to the face above her. Dora said she could sit 
forever at Dolores’ feet and watch her. Dolores’ face was 
a study of which one would never tire, which one must 
study to understand, which one could never fully under- 
stand. 

Mrs. Allen was in an adjoining room reading to Mrs. 
Green. Mrs. Green was a woman one could love at a glance 
and love always ; her sweet old face was flushed with pink, 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


169 


her brown eyes were soft and gentle, her silken white hair 
was brushed in waves back from her face and softened by 
a cap of lace ; her voice was what a woman’s voice should 
be, sweet but firm, low but perfectly modulated. She took 
Dolores right into her motherly heart, knowing every word 
of her history so far as her son knew it, knowing, too, with- 
out being told, that this was the girl her son loved. And 
the slender, silent girl seemed to melt toward her as 
toward no one else, though at first it was very bitter this 
having to accept the hospitality from the other of the man 
who had been so wronged, the mother of the man who was 
simply unspeakably kind to her through pity — it was more 
intensely bitter than she had dreamed it possible anything 
concerning this friend of hers could be. That there was a 
depth and breadth in the friendship which she had never 
fathomed, which she had never attempted to fathom, she 
was beginning to learn when the bitter thoughts would 
come that it was cruel — infinitely cruel — to give such ten- 
der care to her simply from pity. She asked, and she 
wished no pity. It was one of the things that could not fail 
to be bitter to her proud nature. Whatever came to her of 
suffering she could bear as other women bore theirs ; she 
asked and desired no pity froni any one, no pity from the 
man who would not be out of her kindest thought try as 
hard as she might to keep him from her thoughts. Some 
way, in some strange, half inarticulate fashion, his words 
uttered so long, so very long ago, doubtless long ago for- 
gotten by him, would cling to her thoughts and mingle 
with the many other bitter thoughts that filled her mind, 
words that she someway felt held the secret of her sore 
heart, the hardness of her life and the bitterness of accept- 
ing this hospitality — just a few words that any one might 
have uttered, but that could never have so remained in her 
memory as uttered by him : 

“After all there is a sadness in love, Dolores.” 

And she had been forced to accept the hospitality of his 
mother — been forced, and with no excuse to place the ac- 


170 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON^ 8. 


ceptance out of the question, because there was no excuse 
he could offer when they took her father from the little 
house, bearing him carefully to the carriage waiting for 
him at the gate, soft with cushions and pillows of down, to 
the station and the city some thirty miles below the town 
down the valley, with Drs. Dunwiddie and Grey and her 
uncle. They had everything that money could buy to 
gain comfort for him. A car was reserved for him on the 
train ; everything absolutely was done that could be for his 
comfort. And then they had forced upon her the accept- 
ance of this hospitality. She could not remain in the house 
alone ; there was no reason why she should not go with her 
cousin, and as Mrs. Green, with her motherly heart aching 
for the sadness of the girl’s life, refused to hear of their 
taking rooms at a hotel, they accepted the kindness and 
care and the tenderness of the judge’s home. Dr. Dun- 
widdie, always thoughtful, sent a message upon their ar- 
rival in the city, saying that Johnson was apparently all 
right save a little shaking up, and that one of the pleas- 
antest rooms at the hospital was assigned him, and he 
would have the best of care. Since then they had heard 
nothing, and now here was Dolores standing at the window 
waiting for young Green’s return from the office to know 
what message he had brought. 

“Dunwiddie promised to send word every day,” Charlie 
said at dinner, “and he never breaks his word, therefore I 
promise you news to-night. Miss Johnson.” 

He never called her Dolores now. With the leaving of 
her old life he had left off the kindly uttering of her name 
and brought the conventionality of the new life even to 
that. She thought of it with a strange pain at her heart, 
and did not understand what it meant— this sadness upon 
her. 

Mrs. Green was watching Dolores through the open door- 
way, leaning back on the cushioned sofa, her soft hands 
folded in her lap at this her “ rest time” of the day, as she 
listened to Mrs. Allen’s reading, her thoughts somehow 


THAT OIRL OF JOHNSON* 8, 


171 


tangled with that and the girl at the western window in 
the sunset lights and the boy of her heart — their only 
child, the .best son, she often said, laughing, that a mother 
ever had. 

Dora was partly in shadow though her face, too, caught 
the glow from above ; she had been reading aloud of Lochin- 
var from the west, but the book had slipped from her 
hands and lay on the floor at her feet. Her Angers were 
clasped around her knees in graceful abandon, regardless 
of all save the girl standing above her, silent, slender, 
purer and truer than any maiden in the courts where 
Lochinvar met his love. 

The silence that had followed Dolores all her life seemed 
to fall like a vail around her, and even to her cousin for 
the time. The sunset lights faded and died ; a mellow 
darkness enveloped the eastern slope of the mountain ; the 
road that wound up its side was like a slender thread in 
the darkness Out in the street people were passing, their 
voices drifting in through the open window together with 
the fragrance of the flowers on the bank below. Suddenly 
the sound of a church bell smote the air, and Dolores 
started, turning from the window 

“ What is it ?” she asked of Dora, and Dora arose as she 
answered her : 

“Church bells, Lorie,” touching the hand nearest her 
shyly, as though she were half afraid. “This is Wednes- 
day evening, and the bell is ringing for prayer meeting.” 

Dolores made no further remark on the subject. She 
knew nothing of prayer meetings or church bells ; they had 
little interest for her ; her thoughts were with her father, 
with young Green, with many things outside of this com- 
monplace subject. She turned from the window, however, 
bringing her face into shadow. Dora’s face, lifted to hers, 
was touched with the tender roseate flush of the after 
glow. A silence seemed to have fallen upon them all ; 
even Mrs. Allen had ceased her reading, and was watching 
the girls with an inscrutable expression in her eyes. Had 


172 


THAT OIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 


she failed after all in her planning ? There seemed no 
difference in the friendship between this girl and the son of 
their host. Perhaps there was an added sadness around 
the sweet lips and a deeper shadow in the tender eyes, 
but outwardly everything was as it had been. There might 
be a faint trace of constraint in their manner toward each 
other ; she half believed there was. And as she could not 
win Dora from her cousin she could at least make this 
stupid girl feel some of the bitterness she held in her own 
heart. That, at least, was worth planning for. She was 
so deeply buried in these thoughts that she started ner- 
vously when Mrs. Green called the girls in her soft, low 
voice. 

“ My dears,” she said, “ are you not ready to join us now ? 
We have watched the picture you make until now we wish 
yourselves. There is room for each of you beside me here 
on the sofa, or will Dora play something sweet and low to 
charm away the darkness while Lorie and I sit here to- 
gether ?” 

She adopted this soft pet name Dora had given her 
cousin, and there was a tenderness about it when she ut- 
tered it that held a sense of rest for the girl hearing it — 
hearing it from the mother of her friend. 

Before they could answer her, however, quick steps 
sounded on the piazza, the outer door was opened, and 
young Green entered the room where the elder woman sat. 
The gloaming had darkened the room, but as he entered the 
faint light from the rising moon fell upon his face. Mrs. 
Green arose in haste, her face suddenly paling. 

“ Charlie, what is the matter ?” 

The two girls at the distant window were motionless. 
The sweeping curtains fell between them and the others. 
Dora had clasped her hands around her cousin’s arm in 
sudden terror, her face whitening slowly. Dolores did not 
move ; her eyes were set on the others ; for the moment 
they were forgotten. 

“Don’t be frightened, mother,” Charlie said, hurriedly, 


THAT GIUL of JOHNSON'S, 


173 


with a quick glance around the room, taking her hands in 
his. '‘Sit down. Where is Miss Johnson and her cousin? 
They must not know just now ; it would do no good, for 
the train does not go from here till midnight. Dunwiddie 
wires that Johnson has had a relapse and can live but 
twenty-four hours. Dolores — Dolores must not know — yet. 
She cannot get to him, and it would do no good. ” 

A dead silence reigned through the rooms for a moment, 
then the lace curtains were drawn aside from the distant 
window, and Dolores came out; she had unconsciously 
pushed Dora’s hands from her arm arid stood alone with 
the darkness around her, the light of the faded sunset 
setting her in outline against the window. She crossed the 
room with no sign of haste, and stood before Mrs. Green. 

“ I must go to my father,” she said. 

Her voice was perfectly even, but the words were slow, 
as her lips were stiff. 

“ God forgive me !” young Green exclaimed, under his 
breath, clenching his hands at his side. “Mother, why 
did you not tell me ? Why did you not tell me !” turning 
fiercely upon Mrs. Allen in the darkness, in sudden dis- 
trust of her, her subtle words returning to him, losing half 
their meaning. 

Mrs. Green took the girl’s hands in hers, and her voice 
was tender as a mother’s when she spoke. 

“Lorie,”she said, softly. She liked the tender name. 
“ Lorie, my dear — ” 

Dolores interrupted her. 

“I must go to my father,” she repeated, in the same set 
voice, her eyes not moving from Mrs. Green’s face. “How 
can I go ?” 

“You cannot go,” Mrs. Green said, gently, “dear; not 
just now ; there is no way to go until midnight, then the 
train will be due here, and Charlie and Mrs. Allen will take 
you there.” 

“I don’t want any one to take me,” Dolores said, bitterly, 
to Mrs. Allen. “I must go now.” She drew her hands 


174 


TEAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


away from Mrs. Green’s and turned to the young man. He 
was biting his lips with vexation. What a fool — what a 
cruel fool he had been not to have been sure there were no 
others there when he told the news. But he was sure Mrs. 
Allen had said there was no one there but themselves. But 
Dolores’ wide, troubled eyes were on his face, and he met 
them steadily. He knew she was suffering, and would not 
let her believe, if he could help it, that there was special 
cause for her to suffer. 

“I must go to my father,” she said ; “at once. Tell me 
how to get there, please. ” 

“There is no way but the train at midnight,” he replied. 

“But I must go now,” she said, gravely ; “if there is any 
way. Could we not go on horses ? I must go. ” 

He was silent a moment before answering her, for if there 
were any way for her to get there sooner than by train she 
should have the chance. He knew how she was suffering, 
and he suffered as much as she did seeing her suffer. Then 
he shook his head slowly. 

“Even starting now and taking the fastest horses in the 
stables we could get there only half an hour sooner, and 
the ride would be too exhausting for it to pay. We will 
wait. Miss Johnson, and take the train and be in time — I 
am sure we will be in time. Do not worry. I would get 
you there if it were possible, believe me— Dolores.” 

It was the old voice and the old tone of uttering the sad 
name. She gave no sign that she heard, but she heard. She 
said nothing as she turned from him, and went out of the 
room like one in a dream — went out of the room and up the 
stairs to her room, but the tone and the one low word fol- 
lowed her, like a note of tenderness, through her stony sor- 
row. And when she had gone young Green turned to his 
mother, like a boy, in his sore distress, and she, under- 
standing, comforted him. 

“It will kill her,” he said, “all this anxiety. And the 
waiting, and the cruel way he will treat her at the end. 
And it is all my blundering, mammy” — his pet name for 


THAT QIRL OF JOHNiSOH'S. 


175 


her since he was a boy, and carried his troubles to her, 
sure of her comforting as now, in his manhood, he knew 
she would understand and comfort him in this sorest 
trouble. 

Dora touched his arm softly ; her face was pitiful in the 
pale half light from the still invisible moon as she raised it 
to his. 

“I am so sorry, Mr. Green,” she whispered, a trembling 
flash of tears in her eyes. “ I wish I could bear it for her 
— I wish I could do something for her.” 

A red flush surged in his face as he took the soft little 
hand in his, and held it a moment in a close, warm clasp. 

“God bless you,” he said, scarcely conscious of what he 
was saying, his voice deep with hidden feeling, “ Dora, for 
your tenderness of her.” 

Then he left the room and Dora went up after Dolores, 
and the time dragged on leaden feet ere the time came for 
them to go to the train, when Dolores came down the wide 
staircase like a spirit in her trailing black dress and bon- 
net, her face more pallid than the light of the moon on the 
mountains. Dora was behind her, but she seemed to notice 
no one, but passed out on to the steps of the piazza where 
young Green and Mrs. Allen were waiting for her, as 
though she were moving machinery and not through any 
wish of her own. 

“You’re a regular little trump,” Judge Green said, with 
a laugh that he tried to make merry, for the girl had found 
her way into his heart. “But I wish you could wait till 
morning, my dear ; these telegrams are such unsatisfac- 
tory things, and in the morning everything looks so differ- 
ent.” 

“And such an unheard of thing, going off like this in the 
dead of night,” Mrs. Allen said, sharply, showing her 
heart for the moment in her anger. “ Thank Heaven Dora 
isn’t like her.” 

“ Hush, Nurse Allen. If I were half as brave as Lorie I 
would be the proudest girl in the world. I could not do 


176 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON* S, 


what she has, for my father for all I love him as I do. ” 
And Dora’s soft hand was on the woman’s mouth, and her 
pleading face turned to her. 

And these words out of all the others seemed to reach 
Dolores’ mind. She stood for a moment silently on the 
moonlight steps, her face immovable and pallid against the 
dead black of her gown, then she turned to Dora and cried 
in suden fierceness born of pain — a pain her gentler cousin 
could never understand. 

“ And your father loves you, Dora — every one loves you. 
And no one — has ever — loved me.” 


. THAT OIHL OF JOHNSON'S. 


177 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

EVEN IN DEATH. 

As they were whirled along through the night and the 
darkness young Green’s mind was full of the one thought 
that he must tell Dolores about the trial in court that after- 
noom, before they reached the station, and away from Mrs. 
Allen’s hearing. He had suddenly grown to distrust her 
utterly, and watching him and Dolores under half closed 
lids during this strange journey, Mrs. Allen began to fear 
her power to hurt this young man was going from her. But 
then she cared little about hurting him ; it was Dolores 
whom she would injure, or make unhappy if she could, 
and she had already proved that she could. Young Green’s 
mind was occupied with the thoughts of Dolores, and he 
was paying little attention to the silent elderly woman sit- 
ting in the turned seat facing them. How could he tell 
Dolores ? That was his thought. That he must tell her 
he knew was but right and jiist to both herself and her 
father. About his own suspicion in the matter he could not 
tell her just yet. That might come in time, and he would 
tell her if eyer there was hope of her being more to him 
than now she was, though she must always be to him the 
truets, purest girl in the world, and the only one he could 
love as he loved her. 

“Miss Johnson— Dolores,” he said presently, and he 
knew Mrs. Allen could not hear ; her head was leaning 
against the back of the seat and her eyes were closed, but 
he was pretty certain she was not asleep. “ Dolores, you 
remember the laming of my mare just after I first met you, 
and the excitement and indignation among us because of 
it, and our inability to catch the fellow, though suspicion 
pointed strongly in one direction ?” 

She had been buried in thoughts of her father mingled 


178 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


inextricably with those other thoughts that had followed 
her for so many months, of the trial and the shame and 
the loss of friends one cared for ; she could not help a thrill 
of wild gladness, of exultation that now— now they could 
never send for her father — now they could never take him 
from her to the town to prove their suspicions— now the 
law had utterly lost its hold upon him and her. The 
thought had come sharply in upon her knowledge that he 
could never come back, that he could never get well, and 
the thrill would pulse through her whole being that the 
law oculd never hope now to touch their lives ; they could 
never lay a finger on his life after to-night. For her own 
life — 

She roused with a sinking at her heart when the young 
man spoke ; she shook off every other thought and sat 
waiting for what might be coming upon her just when she 
could not help this exulting sense of freedom. Her fingers 
were clasped tightly in her lap and her face was immovable 
as she waited — waited for the darkening of these last few 
hours, perhaps, of her father’s life. The icy face under the 
sickly light of the train was transformed to an outline as 
though cut in stone ; the large dark eyes were burning 
with the suppression of her thoughts and the stifling of her 
heart, waiting for the rest of the words she felt instinc- 
tively she must hear. 

The young man, watching every line of the sweet, rigid 
face beside him, felt a sudden wild longing to comfort her, 
to have the right to comfort her — this, the sweetest, noblest 
girl of all those he ever knew. That all her life had been 
set in sadness and was now to hold a deeper touch of sorrow 
made his voice husky with intensity of emotion as he bent 
his fair head to her so that every word of his should be 
clear to her, should be unheard by the watching woman 
opposite. 

“Dolores,” he said, and he tried to keep his voice steady, 
for her sake as well as his own ; “ we have been following 
up every clew, letting nothing slip us in this matter, as 


TEAT OIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


179 


doubtless you have heard, no matter how trivial it 
might appear. Just before the deed was committed Hal 
and I disturbed two fellows in the act of stealing the mare. 
I had had her but a few months, and she was worth con- 
siderable, for she was blue blood straight through, and I 
knew I would have to guard her well where these ruffianly 
horse-thieves were. It was a dark night, and they had 
her out of the stable, her hoofs bound to deaden the sound, 
but she would whinny in her excitement and terror of the 
rough men, and that saved her. We were late home that 
evening from the house of a friend, and hearing Bess we 
went at once to the stables. One of the fellows we caught, 
but the other made good his escape. When the mare was 
lamed we knew well enough who had done the deed, for 
these horse-thieves are vindictive kind of men, and we 
have been working steadily ever since to get him, issuing a 
warrent to have him taken dead or alive, for they have got 
to learn that they will suffer for this dastardly business.” 

“ A dastardly deed, ” yes, Dolores remembered that. 

“We tried our best to get the fellow we had to tell where 
his comrade was,” the young man continued, his voice 
steady now and natural ; “ but he was silent as the grave ; 
I give him credit for that. There is an honor among even 
these rough, lower men that one must respect. Then we 
waited for your father, as you know, depending consider- 
ably upon his evidence, for he knew the condition of the 
mare’s hoofs when he shod her, and that there was noth- 
ing wrong then save a slight lameness from going too long 
without shoes over the rough road. But even without his 
evidence we have succeeded even better than I had dared 
hope.” 

Dolores did not move. She did not quite understand 
this that he was telling her. How could they succeed with- 
out her father, and how could they get the guilty man— 

“It was only yesterday,” Green went on, and there was 
a touch of pleasure in his voice that Dolores caught with a 
dull sense of dead pain. “It was only yesterday that we 


180 


THAT GIBL OF JOHNSON'S. 


caught the fellow, but we have him safe and sure enough 
now. ” 

Surely they had not — Dolores caught her breath, and her 
swift, terrified eyes flashed upon his startlingly. His own 
eyes darkened as though with troubled thought. 

“The men we sent out in search of him found him yester- 
day, Dolores, not a stone’s throw from where your father 
fell on the opposite mountain. The first fellow we have 
sentenced to five years for attempted horse stealing, and 
the other had his trial to-day. It was sharp and swift, I 
assure you. Such a dastardly deed deserved the severest 
penalty the law allows. ” 

Dolores heard no more. He was describing the trial 
and the defiance of the prisoner, but she heard nothing 
further. Her hands, lying in her lap, were trembling, but 
she uttered no word ; her head was bent and her face now 
in shadow, so that the kindly watchful eyes could not rest 
upon it. She could not have borne that just then. Every- 
thing about her was new, but she saw nothing, heard noth- 
ing but her own accusing conscience. What was she — she 
that he dared sit in judgment upon her own father ? How 
dared she believe him guilty even in her thoughts ? But it 
had seemed so plain — so terribly plain, one thing after 
another adding more evident proof. She had believed him 
guilty. She had told no one, but she had believed it in her 
own heart, and intent was almost as bad as injury. 

A terror took possession of her. Should her father die 
before she asked his forgiveness what a horrible thing it 
would be. How could she ever live if it should happen ? 
What would she do ? And this friend of hers — Dora— her 
uncle — Had not Mrs. Allen almost as good as told her 
every one in the town believed her father was guilty ? Had 
not Mrs. Allen implied in the clearest way she could that 
Dora could never care for her if that should be proved, 
that young Green, in spite of his kindness, would turn 
from her, too, and prove that though his friendship for her 
was from pity there was a point beyond which even pity 


THAT OIBL OF JOHNSON'S. ! 181 

could not go ? Her heart was so sick, everything was so 
dark for the moment she could not see or think clearly, but 
she remembered all these terrible things with stinging dis- 
tinctness. Her memory would not fail her there. Her 
heart had been so sore because of them that now they 
would not loosen their hold without a shock that must fall 
upon her heart and her life. Then, with stern self repres- 
sion, he turned to her companion with a passionate ges- 
ture, her eyes beautiful in their terror and wild pleading, 
her lips quivering in spite of her stern attempt to control 
herself. 

“What shall I do?” she cried, “what shall I do? You 
can tell me if you will, and I must know. If he should die 
— if he should die before I have asked him to forgive me I 
cannot live — I could not live, I tell you, and let him die 
believing that. ” 

He did not question the meaning of her wild words, only 
a deeper shadow crept into his tender eyes resting upon her 
brave, pure face ; he cared for Mrs. Allen not at all at that 
moment, but lifted the trembling hand nearest him in his, 
and held it warm and close, as though to give her strength 
from his strength and care. 

“We will be in time, dear,” he said, quietly, and she did 
not question it, scarcely heard the more kindly name, 
though the horror somehow fell away from her heart and 
a silence and full despair mingled with an indefinite hope 
rested upon her. He was strong, he was her friend, he 
would help her, and he could. 

Mrs. Allen, watching, saw the whole through her half 
closed lids, and a gleam came into her eyes, though not a 
muscle of her face changed or moved in the ghostly flare of 
the night lamps above her head. 

Not another word was uttered until they were standing 
at the door of the hospital waiting for the girl who had 
opened it for them to tell the doctors of their arrival, then 
Dolores asked brokenly as she clung to his arm, unable to 
stand alone for the moment ; 


182 


THAT GIBL OF JOHNSON’S, 


“ You are sure — sure we are — in time 

“Yes,” said the young man gravely, and with steady as- 
surance in his voice, drawnig the girl nearer to him as she 
raised her pallid face to his. “Yes, Dolores. Dr. Dun- 
widdie will be here in a moment. Be brave as you always 
are, and all will be well. ” 

And as Dr. Dunwiddie held her hand for a moment, put- 
ting new strength into her fingers from his steady clasp, he 
said, cheerily : 

“I am glad you are here. Miss Johnson, but'you must 
be very tired. What train did you take, Charlie ?” 

“The midnight express,” answered Charlie, with a 
steady look into his friend’s eyes. Mrs. Allen and Miss 
Johnson should have rest, Hal. Where is her uncle ?” 

“Up stairs,” he replied, crossing the room and pulling the 
bell cord. “Prepare the front room above,” he said to the 
woman who answered his ring. “These ladies need rest at 
once. You must lie down. Miss Johnson. We will need 
you in the morning, but you can do nothing now and 
would only tire yourself to no use. We will call you when 
it is necessary.” 

“But I cannot sleep — I cannot rest until I have seen my 
father. Dr. Dunwiddie. May I not at least speak to him ?” 

He was standing beside her as she spoke, and she un- 
consciously laid her hand on his arm as she asked the 
question, but the fingers trembled no longer and the face 
raised to his though pale was under her control. His black 
eyes were uncommonly gentle as he met her searching 
gaze, and answered her pleading. 

“No. I must say no. Miss Johnson. It is not the man 
who must speak now, but the physician. Do you know 
how hard it is for me to refuse you ? And still I must re- 
fuse you. Your father is quiet and in a half doze ; should 
you see him now he would be too weak to talk to you, and 
it would be worse than useless. I speak plainly to you— 
it might even bring the end at once. Should it be neces- 
sary we will call you at once. Now you must rest. When 


TEAT QIBL OF JOHNSON'S, 


183 


I go up stairs your uncle will come to you for a moment, 
then promise you will go to your room and rest. Will you 
stay, Charlie?” 

“ Have you a room for me, Hal ? I can go to a hotel, you 
know.” He would not say before the girl that he had no 
intention of going to any room that night but the room 
above where the dying man lay. Dr. Dunwiddie understood 
and answered, lightly : 

“Indeed you’ll not go to any hotel. Of course we have 
room for you here, and will be glad to have you, Charlie.” 

And then when he had left the room Lemuel Johnson 
came down for a moment to see Dolores, saying little, for 
he dared say little with her searching eyes on his face and 
the fear upon him that she might ask questions he would 
not answer. She was so different from other girls that he 
almost feared her. He held her hands kindly in his a 
moment, and said she was brave to come so far— that her 
father was quiet— great shock to them all— this relapse. 
Dunwiddie and the other physicians scarcely thought such 
a thing possible, though they had warned them of the pos- 
sible ending. Then one of the women came to take the girl 
and Mrs. Allen to their room, and they went, Dolores al- 
most glad to leave his presence in her present suppressed 
state of feeling. 

She did not think of resting or sleeping with the great 
weight of her injustice to her father upon her mind ; she 
did not even intend to lie down, but the woman who 
entered with them at the orders of the doctor to see that 
the girl should rest quietly, removed her things and induced 
her to lie down for a moment any way, and with her weary 
head among the cool pillows, and her heavy, luxuriant 
hair falling like a vail around her, Dolores Johnson fell 
asleep in the quiet room at the city hospital and slept until 
a light tapping on her door awoke her, and she started to 
her feet to find that Mrs. Allen had left the room and the 
day was broad awake. 

She answered the rap, a tremor in her voice, her thoughts 


184 


TEAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S 


confused and unable at first to comprehend where she 
was or why she was there, until the voice on the other 
side of the door told her to go to room No. 37 as soon as she 
was ready, and she realized what had come. 

When she entered No. 37 it seemed to her at first that 
the room was full of people. Her uncle and young Green 
and Mrs. Allen came forward, for even the woman at that 
moment felt her heart soften toward the pale, quiet girl 
entering the room of death, but she passed them with only 
a glance and crossed to the bedside. Dr. Dunwiddie turned 
to her, as she approached, with a quiet greeting. 

“We think he wishes to see you. Miss Johnson,” he said. 
“He has evidently been looking for some one. Speak to 
him, please.” 

She leaned over the bed with wonderful self-control ; the 
hollow face among the pillows was pallid with the dews of 
death upon it ; the coarse, scant hair strayed on the pillow. 
Instinctively she touched it half timidly with her fingers, 
speaking faintly to him. 

“Father,” she said. “Father I” 

Young Greene’s eyes, upon her face, filled suddenly with 
hot tears, of which he was unconscious, and the tenderness 
in his face made even the cruel woman standing at his side 
feel a sudden relenting toward him and the girl whom she 
knew — ah, there was no shadow of doubt in her mind — that 
he loved. 

It was the same voice, sweet, low, yet strangely pene- 
trating, that had called her father back from death before, 
but how vastly different the scene now ! He muttered 
something unintelligible without opennig his eyes, her 
voice seeming to reach him even in his stupor, perhaps with 
the recollection of that other time when her voice rang 
down the chasm frightening away the bird of death. Then 
suddenly he started up and opened wide his eyes — brilliant 
they were with a swift, false light— and looked past the 
girl and those at the bedside, to where young Green was 
standing near the window away from the others. 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON* 8. 


185 


“Ded ye get ther water?” he whispered, hoarsely. “Were 
ther gal thar ?” Then he sank back muttering : “D’lores— 
D’lores? Why, she’s jest D’lores— that’s all. She ain’t 
never hed no lamin’ ’s I knows ’bout. She’s better ’thout 
et, better ’thout et in her life.” 

Then, his voice rising above the hoarse, weak whisper, 
he called clearly with a new tone in it the name Dolores 
had never before heard from him— the name of her mother. 
For the moment she stood like a statue unable to move or 
speak ; she must hold her feelings in check — that was all 
she thought of — that and what she had to say. 

His eyes closed again, though he still muttered stray 
sentences, which she strained her ears to catch. They were 
few words now. It seemed to her she must cry aloud for 
his forgiveness of her injustice to him ; that she could not 
stand there and see him die with the weight of her guilt 
upon her, knowing it was the last chance she would ever 
have to plead for his forgiveness. 

“I’m a rough ole feller, Mary,” the weak, broken voice 
muttered faintly. “I dedn’t mean ter make ye cry. I told 
ye I warn’t good ’nough fer ye. ” 

Dr. Dunwiddie was standing beside Dolores, and uncon- 
sciously his eyes were fastened upon her face, spell-bound, 
as were the tender eyes of her friend at the window — as 
were the eyes of every one for the time in the room. Young 
Green’s hands were clenched on the back of the chair in 
front of him, and his face told his heart as plainly as could 
be shown, though no one there save Mrs. Allen looked at 
him for the time. 

“Et’s a gal !” he muttered, weakly, his voice falling. “I 
sed most likely et’d be a gal. Jest my luck. Ef’t hed been 
a boy, now — ef ye know when ye’re well off, Tom Smith, 
ye’ll keep a still tongue in yer head ’bout thet gal o’ mine 
an’ ther jedge’s son ower yander. She’s a wonderful 
woman, is D’lores, he telled me so. She’d never stoop ter 
what ye hint et, an’ ye’d best be still forever ’bout sech 
a theng. But ef ever thet young feller kerns around hyar 


186 


THAT OIBL OF JOHNSON'S, 


a-puttin’ notions inter her head— yes, she’s purty ’nough, 
Mary, an’ I don’t blame ye, so don’t cry ; only et’s my 
cursed luck thet — she — wa’n’t a — boy — ” 

The muttering ceased ; the weak voice sank into silence ; 
a faint gasp stirred the white lips, and the hollow eyes 
opened for an instant, all the light gone from them, and 
rested on the face above him ; then a strange, half-livid 
pallor spread over his face, and Dr. Dunwiddie drew the 
girl gently from the bedside over to the open window. He 
poured out some wine from a glass on a stand near, and 
pressed it to her lips. 

“Drink it,” he said, sternly, and she obeyed him mechani- 
cally. 

Young Green came and stood at the back of her chair, as 
though to shield her from any more of life’s strain, any 
more of the sadness that had followed her, nay, even to 
death. His friend, seeing the expression of his face, laid his 
hand gently on his arm in sudden comforting. But Dolores’ 
hands lay in her lap like two hands of ice. She herself 
seemed turning into ice with no power of feeling or thought 
or wish. She seemed to herself in a strange half sense to 
have died when her father died. 


THAT GIBL OF JOHNSON'S. 


187 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

BUT LIFE WENT ON. 

Her father was dead ; she knew it ; she accepted it in 
silence after the first wild return to the realization of what 
had come upon her. Only once, when she was alone with 
young Green, while they were making preparations to con- 
vey the body home, did she show any sign of emotion. She 
seemed to have turned to stone ; she was tearless, silent 
with a silence that told of deeper suffering than words or 
tears could tell. She was standing at the little window in 
their parlor looking out upon the busy street. Dora, who 
had come to her upon receiving the telegram of her uncle’s 
death, was in the inner room with Mrs. Allen and the doc- 
tors and one or two of the attendants. 

She was looking out upon the street, but she saw noth- 
ing ; her gaze seemed to have turned inward upon her own 
soul accused by her conscience. Her father was dead — 
dead. Never before had she seen death. Betsy Glenn died 
over in Scrubtown, and she was not with her when she 
died. Besides, though Betsy Glenn was the one friend, the 
only woman for whom she had cared or who cared for her, 
yet her death was not like this. Betsy Glenn had spoken of 
death as something to be desired, passing from one scene 
to another with nothing sad about it, only awaiting for 
those who were left. This was different. She knew abso- 
lutely nothing about any other life, about anything beyond 
the days that passed much alike to her — or .kad passed 
much alike to her until these friends came into her life. 
Heaven was where the stars were ; her astronomy told her 
of God, an infinite Being, all powerful, all merciful ; the 
Creator of all things, but farther than that she knew 
nothing. 

Her father was dead. Dead to her meant as he looked 


188 


TUAT GIRL OF JOHNSON' 8» 


when last she saw him in the inner room. Dead meant a 
silence, a terrible end to all communication, to every- 
thing that had been life ; a gray silence never filled, a dull 
pain that never ceased, never lessened. Her father was 
dead. Through the night and the mountains she had come 
eagerly, feverishly, calling upon this God who was all 
powerful, all merciful, whom she did not know, to bring 
her in time to her father that she might ask his forgive- 
ness for her unjust suspicion of him, and He had not done it. 

Her father was dead. Beyond the power to hear, or 
heed, or answer. Dead, with the knowledge following 
him to the last that she had suspected him — nay, had be- 
lieved him guilty of the dastardly deed. The law had not 
been so cruel as she thought ; the law was just and gener- 
ous in that it kept its suspicions and knowledge to itself 
until the truth was proved. She thought Dora knew, and 
young Green, and her uncle, and it was only herself, only 
her father’s daughter who had suspected him. But her 
memory was somewhat dulled just now ; did she not re- 
member that some other had spoken of this suspicion — 
some other had given a hint that was so plain, so very 
plain, that she was not the only one who believed this of 
her father, that every one in the town knew of it and had 
their own ideas on the subject, and that these friends she 
had could be freinds of hers no longer when once suspicion 
was proven. She was sure, and yet it was an indistinct 
remembrance now with this bitterness upon her soul — that 
the woman who had come from the town and should 
know, had said or hinted that there was pretty hard feel- 
ings toward her father there because of — 

He was dead past all speaking. She could never have his 
pardon, never atone. No wonder he disliked her ; she won- 
dered, still in that vague half consciousness, that he did 
not strike her dead ; that something did not strike her 
dead. His daughter ! No one else, so far as she knew, 
save from those words of the woman mingled indistinguish- 
ably in her thoughts— no one else had done him the injus- 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON' 8. 


189 


tice she had, and even if they had was she not his daughter 
— her mother’s daughter. 

She was glad her mother was dead. Glad that she could 
not know of this, if indeed she did not know. Death was 
confused in her mind. Her mother was sometimes very 
near to her, but her father was dead, perhaps this was be- 
cause she was a baby when her mother died ; she had seen 
her father die. 

Thought crowded upon thought, yet with a distinctness 
mingled with those strange half intelligible words of the 
past, that was intense suffering to her. No wonder Mrs. 
Allen told her these friends could be friends of hers no 
longer than during the time she needed pity. That they 
were beyond her life, and it would be out of human possi- 
bility for her to expect them to hold to her when — She 
couldn’t quite follow out that line of thought. There was 
such a blind, dumb pain in her heart when she thought of 
the kindly blue eyes of this friend of hers, turning from 
her, going utterly out of her life. Of Dora, the sweet little 
woman who had given her such loving thought as never 
another woman had given her in all her young life — Dora 
turning against her, too, when all the others should turn, 
and must live her life alone — alone till death should still 
the terrible pain at her heart. 

She was in a half stupor, with her brain so active that it 
was wearing away her very life. Dr. Dunwiddie said that 
she must be aroused ; she must be brought out of this state ; 
she must be moved to tears, or to some utterance of her 
grief. She could not go on like this. For a year now she 
had been in this strained state of feeling. He turned to 
Dolores in this time of need. He had grown accustomed to 
going to Dora in any time of trouble, and to her as to him 
it was very sweet. She was not the pale girl who arrived 
at the mountain a year before ; her face had filled out ; 
her cheeks no longer bore the hectic fiush, but held the soft 
color of advancing health, while her eyes had lost their 


190 


TEAT OIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


strained look of suffering. Her cough was leaving her and 
health was upon her. 

Dr. Dunwiddie called her over to him by the window 
that morning, and she went to him obediently, and stand- 
ing beside him there she did not come up to his shoulder. 

“Something must be done for your cousin,” he said, 
gravely. “I leave it to you what that shall be. Miss Dora, 
but whatever it is must be done speedily. She is in such a 
state of half consciousness, her senses dulled by too much 
strain upon them that she is in danger of losing her mind. 
She has wonderful powers of endurance, but human nature 
is human nature. Go to her. You are a woman, and will 
know what to do.” 

“But I don’t know what to do,” she said as gravely as he 
had spoken. “Dr. Dunwiddie, Lorie is so different from 
other girls, I don’t know what to say when she is like that. 
She is so beautiful and so still. How can I break through 
her reserve or bring her to tears ?” 

“It sounds cruel,” he said, “Miss Dora, but it is the only 
thing that can be done, and is true kindness. ” 

“You are always kind,” she said, softly, and the soft eyes 
lifted to his were womanly eyes, and the tender, drooping 
face was a sweet face to him. It had grown upon his heart 
as he watched her through the year that had worked such 
bhanges on more lives than his. “ We will take her away 
from here as soon— as— all is over. We return to New York 
next week, Dr. Dunwiddie. There is so much there to 
take her mind from these things ; the change will be good 
— better than anything else, will it not ?” 

He turned suddenly from the tender face, the soft eyes, 
the sweet mouth quivering with her thought for her cousin, 
and stood silently at the window for a moment as though 
he had forgotten her presence. Then presently he turned 
again to her, and there was a sudden determination upon 
the strong, kind face that bent so tenderly above hers lifted 
to his inquiringly, the soft color fleeing and returning 
again in great tides in her face. 


TEAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 


191 


“You are going — so soon?” he said, and the grave voice 
proved the inward control of the tumult in his heart. 
“Dora — Dora, will you leave me with no promise, no word 
of kindness, no hope that I may see you again, have you — 
love you? You are kind to every one, Dora Johnson, out 
of the pure sweetness of your heart — be kind to me and 
tell me of some kindly thought. ” 

They had forgotten for the moment the girl in the other 
room. Dora’s hands were close in his, Dora’s tender face 
was lifted up to his with a half shy sweetness upon it, 
Dora’s lips were whispering something, he scarcely knew 
what, only knew that Dora was giving to him the tender, 
sweet, womanly heart with its purity and truth — giving 
this into his keeping to be held, thank God, through all their 
lives as the sacred thing it was — a woman’s tender heart. 

Then, by and by — only a minute it might be, yet with a 
life’s change to them — Dora drew away her soft, warm 
hands, and a new expression was on the sweet face, lifted 
with its tearful eyes to the face above her. 

“I — I must go to Lorie — Harry,” she whispered, and there 
was a tremor in her low voice born of her great happiness. 
“I must not forget Lorie even — even now.” 

“Always my thoughtful, tender girl,” he said, and the 
low spoken words brought the deeper color to the smooth 
cheeks and a gleam of happy light in the lifted gray eyes. 

She drew away from him and crossed the room to the 
door of the inner room, her heart beating rapturously in 
spite of the sadness that would come at thought of the sad- 
ness of the nobler girl in that still, empty room beyond. 
But in the door- way she paused, and every thought left her 
— every thought save of the girl she had come to comfort, 
the brave, noble, true girl who had suffered so much and 
so long alone. 

Young Green had just entered the room from the hall. 
There had been something in his manner lately that won 
Dora’s deepest respect. The lightness, that had made him 
such a jolly comrade had given place to a quiet humor 


192 


THAT OIRL 01 JOHNSON* S, 


that made him a charming companion. There was a quiet 
dignity about him, a new touch of noble manhood in his 
face, that to her was a revelation. She had guessed, watch- 
ing him, interested in him, loving Dolores as she loved her 
— she guessed of the thought he had for her, and she hon- 
ored him loving such a girl as this grave cousin of hers, 
this girl so slightingly spoken of among her own neighbors 
because of her utter height above them, this girl whom 
her father had hated with his narrow hatred, this girl the 
personification of womanliness and truth and purity. 

Dolores turned from the window at his approach, and a 
sudden sharp sense of everything that had gone, everything 
that must come in the future, struck her like a knife. She 
knew that he had read all the evil in her heart, that he 
must know to what a depth she had fallen — she, her 
father’s daughter, and she turned to him with a bitter cry, 
holding out her hands as though for help : 

“He is dead !” she cried, and the watching girl in the 
door- way felt the hot tears rush to her eyes at sound of the 
agonizing voice and the agony on the lifted pallid face. 
“He is dead, and he does not know I am sorry — he can 
never know now. ” 

He took her hands in his, and held them close and warm 
in his strong clasp ; his eyes were only full of a great ten- 
derness and love and longing to comfort her ; his voice 
was tender as a woman’s when he spoke. 

“I think he does know, Dolores. I believe he does 
know. ‘ To whom much is given much shall be required.’ 
Therefore, to whom less is given less shall be required. I 
believe he does know and has forgiven you — and me.” 

“How can he know?” she cried, and Dora’s hand went 
out to the strong hand near her for strength, watching the 
lifted icy face before her, never thinking of her eavesdrop- 
ping, forgetting everything but the agony of the girl. 
“How can he know when he is dead ? When he died before 
I could tell him— before he could forgive me? Don’t you 
know that my father is dead ?” 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


193 


“Yes,” he said, gently, “I know he is dead, Dolores, but 
after death all things are made straight. He knows now 
better than he ever could have known from your telling, 
and I know he has forgiven us. ” 

She did not comprehend. There was no softening of the 
tense lines of the stony face, no lessening of the agony in 
the wide dark eyes, no softening of the set, stern mouth. 

“ How can he know when he is dead ?” she said. 

There were sweetness and solemnity in the young man’s 
voice as he bent above the beautiful cold face that caused 
Dora to catch her breath in sudden comprehending of the 
depth of the kindly heart, as he slowly repeated, the touch 
on the girl’s hands very tender, the light in the loving 
eyes entering into her very soul ; 

“ ‘There is no death. What seems so is transition ; 
This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal we call death. ’ 

“And God is there,” he added, “and the Christ who 
lived and suffered everything and more than anything hu- 
manity ever could suffer, and died that death to us might 
be but a new life. He understands our hearts, Lorie^ 
Lorie dear. He understands our wish that your father 
should know we are sorry for our unjust suspicion of him, 
for, just for a time, Lorie — just for a time when I heard 
him say things that I could not understand, when I heard 
others hint at things that might mean much — just for a 
time, Lorie, I, too, believed he was guilty. I beg your 
pardon, too. I have more need than any one for forgive- 
ness.” 

And Mrs. Allen, who had also heard and seen what was 
going on in the room, Mrs. Allen, coming through the hall, 
heard and saw and knew instinctively that her planning 
had been in vain, that her desire for making the girl suffer, 
to a certain extent had gone even beyond her thought, but 
that her power to hurt or wound her in any way in the 
future was gone forever — gone completely — and she must 


194 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


hush her planning right here if she would in any degree 
retain the affection of Dora— the girl she had darkened 
her soul to hold. 


CHAPTEB XXXVI. 

' “that girl of JOHNSON’S.” 

Dora was standing at the well at Dolores’ old home 
with her husband, waiting for Dolores and Charlie Green, 
who had gone at the girl’s request over to the opposite 
mountain. It was a strange freak of Dolores’, but with 
the usual simple acquiescence in any wish of hers they had 
gone, and here Dora and her husband were waiting for 
their return at the girl’s old home. 

But it was not the home of the girl’s remembrance. Ah, 
time had changed even that in his flight. The garden was 
in fine order and the fence well built ; no longer did the 
gate swing on its rusty, rickety hinges. The enterprising 
chickens were scratching among the shrubs at the back of 
the house, but not a chicken dared show its face at the 
front of the neat little house where Jim Lodie and Cinthy 
lived — the two young people who had always had a kindly 
thought for its former mistress. 

Around the bend the tavern showed among the trees and 
bushes, its windows and doors invitingly open, and Jones 
with some of his comrades was sitting smoking at the door, 
the smoke from their pipes rising in little clouds and puffs 
against the intense green of the foliage and the blue sky. 
Cinthy was down there with her boy, the image of his 
father, and the house was left for Dolores and her friends. 

They had come back to the town for the summer, Dolores 
and her uncle and cousin, and they had come over as far 
as the settlement, and there left Dora and her husband to 
wait while the girl and young Green went on over to the 
mountain where life had been so changed for them all. It 
was a strange freak truly for the girl to desire to go again 
to the fatal spot of her life, but she had an intense desire 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSOITS, 


195 


to stand once more where she stood that day calling her 
father back from a horrible death to a death as certain, yet 
not so strange. They had tried to dissuade her at first, but 
seeing her set determination, young Green only made it a 
stipulation that he should be allowed to accompany her, 
and she, meeting the wistful tenderness of his eyes, could 
not say him nay, and they were gone, Dora waiting with 
her husband at the little house in the settlement for their 
return. 

She was standing at the well watching her husband as 
he swung the bucket down among the cool shadows, her 
sweet face, grown more womanly and holding a deeper 
meaning in every delicate line. She stood on tiptoe to 
look down and follow the flight of the bucket, but even 
standing so she scarcely reached to his shoulder. She 
turned her pretty head on one side as a bird might do, and 
said, with an air that convulsed her husband, though there 
was a deeper and more tender meaning to her words that 
he would not let her know he understood. 

“The course of true love never did run smooth — and 
look at that poor bucket, Hal. You are fairly beating the 
life out of it against the sides of the well. ” 

“Poor thing !” said the big fellow, in a tone that implied 
scant sympathy for the luckless bucket. “You had better 
say that Charlie is eating his heart out because your cousin 
will not love him. Dot. Is she never going to be good to 
him for his faithfulness, dear ? He deserves a good life and 
a good woman, Dora ; even your cousin cannot deny that.” 

“Don’t talk of Lorie as though she were heartless, 
Harry,” Dora said, softly, with one of her swift wistful 
glances up to his face. “Lorie is not like other girls. She 
isn’t a bit like me, for instance, because you knew right 
away that I was the happiest girl in the world when you 
loved me. Lorie would never let you know it till you had 
proved worthy.” 

“Does that mean, my happiest girl, that I am not worthy 
of you?” demanded Dr. Dunwiddie, with mock severity, 


196 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 


eying the dainty lady before him with the air of a wounded 
lord. Then, suddenly changing his tone and manner, he 
laid one hand on the round arm stretched beside him on 
the well curb. 

“Dora,” he said, softly, and she lifted her eyes to his 
face with a swift change on her own. “Dora, dearest, I 
will tell you what no one in the world has ever guessed — 
which I scarcely guessed myself. You know that I love 
you, Dora — you know that of all women in the world you 
are the dearest to me,' but you do not know of a dark page 
in my life, which I turned down almost as soon as it faced 
me — you do not know, and no one knows, how I was 
tempted when first I knew your cousin, when first I real- 
ized what a beautiful being a woman can be, when first I 
knew that there was a meaning to life of which I had not 
dreamed till I saw your cousin’s noble daily life. You had 
just come to the town then ; your tender thought for those 
around you and your unselfish suffering had wakened to 
me a new thought of woman’s life. But when I saw Dolores 
with her beautiful, grave, stately grace of manner, and her 
wonderful, true eyes, I felt that life might be very differ- 
ent to me were such a woman beside me always to help 
and comfort me in the hard life a physician to a certain 
extent must bear. You did not dream, my sweet, tender, 
true little woman, how I was tempted to betray the trust 
Charlie had placed in me, leaving the girl in my care to 
see that she should be guarded from any sadness that was 
possible to keep from her ; to know that she had some 
friend near her always whom she could trust for help 
should help and kindness be needed. I came near to lov- 
ing Dolores Johnson then, my Dora, and to darkening my 
life with betrayed trust to my friend— for I knew Charlie’s 
heart then as well as I do now. But I could not let the 
thought dwell with me, and I conquered. I did not ever 
love Dolores, Dora. She aroused my admiration by her 
womanly purity and noble self-sacrifice, but that was all. 
I could easily have brought myself to love her, she was 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 


197 


such a marvelous woman, but I put the thought from me, 
and love for her has never entered my life. I love you, Dora, 
sweet, as I could never love another woman. I have told 
you this because it is your right to know, and also to prove 
to you how deeply I do love and trust my little wife.” 

The soft eyes lifted to his, with the lashes touched with 
tears, were very tender, and the face was quivering some- 
what as Dora answered him. 

“I am not afraid,” she said, and her voice was so low her 
husband had to stoop to catch the words. “ I trust you so 
fully, Harry Dunwiddie, that I could not help loving you 
though you should never care for me. I do believe that 
you love me. And I do not blame you for your thought of 
Dolores. Any man might feel himself ennobled by ever 
having loved her. Only — only you are very, very sure you 
do love just me the best ?” 

What cared he that the tavern doors and windows were 
open or that Jones and his comrades sat at the door- way 
with that lifted, quivering face so near his own ? And as 
he took her in his arms a depth of tenderness in his face 
and voice which perhaps she, loving him even as she did, 
had never before guessed, he said very low, very softly, his 
black eyes searching the lifted tender ones of gray that 
now reflected the black of emotion : 

“ Dora Dunwiddie, my wife, I love you, God knows, more 
tySan I could have ever loved a woman other than you. 
Would I have laid my heart and its dark thought bare to 
you, think you, did I not love you as only perfect trust can 
love? And see,” there was a broken laugh on his lips that 
brought a swift dash of tears to the tender lifted eyes, 
“here, my Dora, I will show you a token that you and you 
only have reigned in my heart for flve long years.” He 
took from an inside vest-pocket a note-book of worn 
leather, and unfastening the leathern clasp opened the 
book at the back, revealing a shred of narrow pale blue 
ribbon creased with the touch of her own round throat. 
“ Perhaps you have forgotten that I took this day that when 


198 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S. 


you first lay in my arms quite helpless, utterly dependent 
upon me for help. Perhaps you never guessed that even 
then the thought of you and your patient sweetness for 
others held a depth for me that even your beautiful, grace- 
ful cousin could not touch. Do you believe now, Dora 
darling, that I do truly love my wife as I could never love 
another ?” 

She drew down the hand that held the book, and laid her 
warmly flushing cheek against it, the quivering, smiling 
lips brushing his fingers as so she held it in her two hands. 

“Ah, but you do not know,” she said, softly and low, the 
words almost indistinct with her bent head, that his eyes 
might not catch the tenderness of the sweet face, “you 
never guessed that your tenderness of me that day was 
the beginning of my — love — for you, Harry Dunwiddie. If 
you had never told me of your love I should still have loved 
you. I could not help loving you. I can not help loving 
you now.” 

While the other two having passed down out of the set- 
tlement, followed by the half scornful eyes of the men at 
the tavern, crossed the rotten bridge over the river that 
still sobbed its miserere chorus along the coarse grass at 
its edge, and ascended the opposite mountain slowly among 
the bent bushes and mysterious mists that held in their 
hiding the snares of death and the pitfalls that lay in wait- 
ing. 

“Thar goes thet gal o’ Johnsing’s,” Tom Smith said, with 
a rough break of laughter in his deep voice. “What en 
ther world she’s goin’ ower yander fer beats me holler.” 

“Goin’ ter say her prayers ower her feyther’s grave, I 
reckon,” joined in Hiram Sadler, coarsely, but the answer- 
ing laughter on Smith’s lips never passed them as Jones 
turned his indignant eyes upon them, removing his pipe 
from his lips to make reply. 

“Et ’pears to me,” he said, slowly, with an emphasis that 
hushed their mirth, “thet ye might hev gained a mite o’ 
respec’ an’ kindly feelin’ arfter all these years sence 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S, 


199 


Johnsing died. Et do seem es though ye kyant help 
sayin’ onkind thengs o’ hem now ’t he’s been dead these 
four year an’ ower. Ye knows an’ wes all ken tell o’ ther 
kindly feelin’ D’lores hes fer we uns even spite o’ ther 
haysh thengs wes said ’bout her an’ ther jedge’s son. Et 
do ’pear ter me ’t ye might keep yer mouth shet ef ye ken 
only say sech spiteful thengs. Ye did yer best while John- 
sing were lyin’ sufferin’ ter set hes old frien’s agin him 
an’ now ’t hes been dead nigh on to four year ye hes ter 
keep a-sayin’ of ’em still. Ise only got thes ter say ter ye, 
Sadler, an’ ter ye, too, Smith — ef ye kyan’t say kind thengs 
o’ the gal o’ Johnsing’s arfter all she’s done an’ ’s still 
doin’ fer us ye ain’t so welcome ter this tav’n as ye were. 
An’ ye ken take et as ye will. Thet’s all I’ve got ter speak, 
an’ now my mind’s better’n when I sot hyar list’nin’ ter 
yer men talk*” 

A flush came even through the tan of rough Sadler’s face, 
and Smith shuffled his feet upon the gravel and knocked 
the ashes from his pipe as he said, slowly : 

“Thanke ’ee, Jones. Wes been frien’s nigh enter fo’ty 
year, an’ fer my part I ain’t a-goin’ ter ’low sech triflin’ 
words ter kem atween we. Hyar’s my hand on ’t. I ain’t 
mebby so onfrien’l to’rd D’lores es ye ’pear ter thenk. Wes 
all say thengs ’t wes don’t mean, an’ mebby thet’s ther 
way of us. Eh, Sadler ?” 

Sadler nodded his grisly head slowly. He wasn’t so 
frank spoken as Smith nor perhaps so kind-hearted under 
his rough speech. Smith said many rough things, but he 
would have done much also. 

And young Green, holding Dolores’ warm hand closely 
in his to assist her up the rough, seldom trodden path under 
the bending boughs and ghastly mists, was thinking of the 
many years she had lived there in the stolid settlement 
with not one friend in all the world save, it might be, the 
rough, unspoken kindliness of Jim Lodie and Cinthy. And 
with his kindly eyes upon the grave, beautiful face he 
could but wonder how such a life could yield such a marvel 


200 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’S. 


of womanliness and tenderness. The love that had held 
place in his heart since he watched the suffering she so 
bravely endured had but grown deeper and stronger and 
truer as the years with their changes had passed, and still 
he was waiting for the answer he hoped for, the answer he 
had asked her one night under the starlight of her loved 
heavens ere she left the quiet life of the town for the new 
life beyond the mountains with her cousin and uncle. She 
gave him no answer then ; the swift agony of the bowed 
head left him no hope for that then, but the flashing touch 
of tenderness in the lifted wistful eyes as she bade him 
farewell left a throb of hope for the answer that might 
come to him when again she should be with him, and so 
he had waited with a tender patience that few men would 
have given him credit for in the old days of his good com- 
radeship. 

She was dressed in a soft black gown now that she held 
mechanically up from the reaching bushes and grasping 
briers, and there was no color about her save the deep red 
of the proud sweet mouth and the creamy whiteness of the 
smooth cheeks. 

It was a strange freak of hers, no doubt, this wish to 
once again stand upon the brink of her father’s death, but 
how could he, loving her, dissuade her from a desire so in- 
tense as this was shown by the pleading of the dark eyes ? 
And so they had come, and, standing in the very place 
where she stood years before, with the misty, mysterious 
gulf at her feet and the broken glimpses of blue heaven 
through the floating mist, a touch of grief and pleading and 
tenderness came over the pure, pale face that caused this 
man, loving her, to bow his head as one involuntarily 
bows the head before the chancel with the touch of an in- 
describable holiness brooding above. And he removed his 
hat, standing so, with his hand upon her round arm as she 
stood immovable searching the terrible death below her, as 
though for the solving of the bitterness of her life, as 
though for the solving of her own harsh heartlessness in 


THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S.. 


201 


accusing her father when none other save the man at her 
side and others with wicked intent, charged him with 
crime. And there was an agony dawning over the pallid 
face and wide eyes that hushed all other thought for the 
time in the heart of her friend — all thought save an intense 
desire and longing to take her into his arms and soothe 
this agony of bitterness and shield her all her life long from 
any touch of pain, any touch of life’s harshness. But he 
waited silently with bent head, his hand upon her arm, 
while she fought — and won — perhaps a struggle that few 
are called upon to fight, that few would conquer. Then the 
eyes, widened with agony, were lifted from the depths of 
horror and mystery seeking the broken bits of blue heaven 
through the mist of the tangled pines upon the height, and 
an indescribable grandeur and beauty gradually grew upon 
the lifted face and in the depths of the grave eyes as though 
the peace sought had been won, and the bitterness of years 
was buried never again to be resurrected in all the life be- 
fore her, never again to shadow, as it had done, the love 
and life of this friend beside her. And he, guessing in 
part the thoughts in her heart, made no movement save a 
more tender hold upon the steady arm he held. And he 
waited for her to speak. 

All her life had passed her in review as she stood there 
conscious even through the bitterness of this warm, kindly 
friend at her side — all the bitterness and pain and humilia- 
tion and struggle of her life, all the thoughts and sorrows 
and struggles, and when at last she turned facing this 
friend, the change upon her face was as though an angel 
had touched her standing there, and life’s suffering had 
passed from her, life’s struggles and pain, and left only the 
touch of heavenly fingers upon the eyes and mouth. 

She turned her large eyes upon him, luminous with the 
lights of the heavens where the sunset was struggling with 
the mists, tender with a new, wonderful, sweet light that 
caused his heart to throb with new tenderness, new hope, 
new courage and a sudden knowledge of the heart so long 


m 


202 TEAT OIBL OF JOHNSON'S. 

hidden from his sight. One of her slow, radiant smiles 
broke the sadness of her face as she laid her hand upon the 
hand on her arm as she said softly, a new intonation even 
in the low voice : 

“You mustn’t be so good to me, Charlie ; I ought to suf- 
fer alone sometimes. You cannot realize how much I de- 
serve it. ” 

He laid his other hand warmly over this soft hand on his 
arm, a new light on his face, and in his eyes that caused 
a sudden drooping of the face in the light of the sunset. 

“You deserve to suffer,” there was an intensity in his 
voice born from watching the suffering on her face, and 
from the suffering in his own soul. “You deserve to suffer, 
Dolores Johnson. If there is need for your suffering how 
much more should I suffer who was equal with you in 
thinking the unkind thoughts, in believing even for one 
moment the bitter, cruel words uttered against your purity 
and tenderness by the woman who was in your presence 
daily, who, watching your sweetness of life, could find it 
in her heart to utter cruel words to your hurt. I could not 
help their hold upon me at first, Dolores, but I crushed 
them out utterly — or your purity and tenderness of life 
drove them out. How could I, watching your unselfish 
tenderness and womanly sweetness, hold such thoughts 
long in my heart ? Come away from this terrible place, 
Dolores — leave all these old bitter memories here in the 
weird shadows and mists only fit for them, and give your 
life to my keeping, tell me you love me as I love you — give 
me the answer to the question I asked so long ago, Lorie, 
under the light of your heavens, under the tender light of 
your stars ere you left me for your 'new life and possible 
forgetfulness.” 

She met his eyes gravely and squarely, though the new 
light of tenderness was still in them as she said, slowly, 
with almost her old slowness : 

“The happiness of a man’s life does not altogether de- 
pend on the love of a woman, Charlie.” 


THAT GIBL OF JOHNSON'S. 


203 


“To a great extent, darling.” 

“But even if I should tell you ‘no,’ you would be happy 
after a while, Charlie. Time heals everything. ” 

“Not everything, Lorie.” 

“Yes, everything,” she said, decidedly. “You know that 
time heals everything, Charlie— even the old pain of un- 
forgiveness. ” 

“Hush!” he said, swiftly, and his hands on both her 
arms as he held her facing him, were trembling with the 
wish to hold her free from pain. “ You are never to say 
such things again, dearest. Let those things pass. You 
have suffered enough for them, and God will lay His great 
tenderness over them.” 

She was silent a moment, as though reading his inmost 
thought, the lifted eyes grave and searching and tender. 

Then she turned from the gruesome chasm buried at her 
feet in its treacherous shroud of mist, and said, softly, 
with a tenderness that touched him deeply : 

“ God is very good, Charlie. I cannot doubt his tender- 
ness. All my life I will leave in his hands as you say — all 
my life, past as well as future.” Then presently she 
added : 

“Let us go, Charlie. I leave here buried in the heart of 
His mountains the bitterness that has shadowed not only 
my life but the lives of those who love me. The mountains 
are His and my life is His.” 

But as they paused for an instant on the rotten bridge 
with the waters sobbing at their feet, black with the slime 
and smoke of the town, she laid her hand earnestly upon 
his arm, and lifting her grave face to his, flushing with its 
new tenderness, she added, softly : 

“You have been so good to me always, Charlie ! Are you 
sure — sure you do want nobody but that girl of Johnson’s? 
I come with empty hands, you know.” * 

He smiled into the quivering face and wide, searching 
eyes as he answered her, taking her two hands in his closely 
as though he would never again let them go from him ; 


m 


TEAT GIRL OF JOHNSON'S 


“I am sure, sure that I want you, Dolores Johnson, more 
than any woman in God’s beautiful world. You hands may 
be empty hands, but they are beautiful in the work they 
do and have done for others, for even these cruel people 
here who would have ruined your sweet life, and the 
woman who, now your uncle’s wife, would have stained 
her hands forever for the darkening of your heart. ” 

And what could she say ? And the lights of the sunset 
were very tender over them as they crossed the bridge and 
passed up along the road through the settlement where the 
changes of her working had given an air of neatness and 
home life and widening of view, with its school and church 
and kindly touch of neighborliness ; and as they passed the 
tavern where Jones and his comrades still sat with their 
pipes in lazy enjoyment, the men gave greeting with a new 
touch of kindliness that went to the heart of the girl who 
had lived her twenty years among them uncared for and 
unloved. And the eyes of her lover Avere brilliant with 
the depth of his thought for her, and his arm was strong to 
guide and guard her through any pain the future might 
bring, and never again could this pale, beautiful girl of 
Johnson’s suffer alone or bear her life’s burdens outside of 
the pale of tenderest love. 

(THE END.) 


^^THE FACE OF EOSENFEL/^ by Charles Howard 
Montague, will be published in the next number (54) of 
The Select Series. 


DENMAN mOMPSON’S OLD HOMESTEAD. 


STREET & SMITH’S SELECT SERIES No. 23^ 


X*rice, S5 Oents, 


Some Ooinions of the Press* 

**Asthe probabilities are remote of the play ‘The Old Homestead’ belnj? 
anywhere but in large cities It is only fair that the story of the piece should 
oe printed. Like most stories written from plays It contains a great deal wlilch 
is not said or done on the boards, yet It Is no more verbose than such a story 
should be, and It gives some good pictures of the scenes and people w'ho for a 
year or more have been delighting thousands nightly. Uncle Josh, Aunt Tlldy, 
Old Cy Prime. Reuben, the mythical Bill Jones, the sheriff and all the other char- 
acters are here, beside some new ones. It is to be honed that the book will make 
a large sale, not only on its merits, but that other play owners may feel encour- 
aged to let their works be read by the many thousands who cannot hope to see 
them on the stage.”— iV, Y. Hei'aia, June 2d. 

" Denman Tliompson’s ‘The Old Homestead’ Is a story'of clouds and sunshine 
alternating over a veneratt*d home; of a grand old man, honest and blunt, who 
loves his honor as he loves his life, yet suffers the agony of the condemned In 
learning of the deplorable conduct of a wayward son; a story of country life, love 
and Jealousy, without an impure thouglit, and with the healthy flavor of the 
fields In every chapter. It Is founded on Denman Thompson s drama of ‘The 
Old Homestead.’ ” — N. Y. Press, May 26lh. 

“ Messrs. Street & Smith, publishers of the New YorTc WeeTcly, have brought 
out In book-form the story of ‘ The Old Homestead,’ the play which, as produced 
by Mr. Denman Thompson, has met with such wondrous success. It will proba- 
bly have a great sale, thus justifying the foresight of the publishers in giving the 
drama this permanent fiction form.”— A. Y. Morning Journal, June 2d. 

“ The popularity of Denman Thompson’s play of ‘ The Old Homestead’ has 
encouraged street & Smith, evidently with his permission, to publish a good-sized 
novel with the same title, set in the same scenes and including the same charac- 
ters and more too. The book is a fair match for the play in the simple good taste 
and real ability with which it is written. The publishers are Street & Smith, and 
^hey have gotten the volume up in cheap popular form.”— A. Y. Graphic, May 29. 

“Denman Thompson’s play, ‘The Old Homestead,’ is familiar, at least by rep- 
utatlon, to every play-goer in, the country. Its truth to nature and its simple 
pathos have been admirably preserved in this story, which is founded upon it 
and follows its incidents closely. The requirements of the stage make the action 
a little hurried at times, but the scenes described are brought before the mind’s 
eye with remarkable vividness, and the portrayal of life in the little New Eng- 
land town is almost perfect. Those who have never seen the play can get an 
excellent idea of what it is like from the book. Both are free from sentlmentalJ*i^ 
and sensation, and are remarkably healthy In Xxine."— Albany Express. 

“Denman Thompson’s ‘Old Homestead’ has been put Into story -form ana' Is Is- 
sued by Street & Smith. The story will somewhat explain to those who have not 
seen it the great popularity of the play.”— Rroofcfyn Times, June 8th. 

iw “The fame of Denman Thompson’s play, ‘Old Homestead,’ is world-wide. 
Tens of thousands have enjoyed It, and frequently recall the pure, lively pleasure 
they took in its representation. This is the story told in narrative form as well 
as it was told on the stage, and will be a treat to all, whether they ha^e seen the 
play or not."— National Tribune, Washington, D. C. 

“Here we have the shaded lanes, the dusty roads, the hilly pastures, the 
peaked roofs, the school-house, and the familiar faces of dear old Svvanzey, and 
the story which, dramatized, has packed the largest theater in New York, and 
has been a success everywhere because of its true and sympathetic touches of 
nature. All the incidents which have held audiences spell- bound are here re- 
corded— the accusation of robbery directed against the innocent boy, his shame, 
and leaving home ; the dear old Aunt Tilda, who has been courted for thirty 
years by the mendacious Cy Prime, wlio has never had tlie courage to propose ; 
the fall of the country boy into the temptations of city life, and his recovery by 
the good old man who braves the metropolis to find him. The story embodies aU 
that the play tells, and all that It suggests as welL”— Aarwos Citn Joum^ 
ItoysTth* 


THE COUNTY FAIR. 

NEIL BURGESS. 

Written from the celebrated play now 
running its second continuous season in 
New York, and booked to run a third sea- 
son in the same theater. 

The scenes are among the New Hamp- 
shire hills, and picture the bright side of 
country life. The story is full of amusing 
events and happy incidents, something 
after the style of our “Old Homestead,” 
which is having such an enormous sale. 

THE COUNTY FAIU” will be one 
of the great hits of the season, and should 
you fail to secure a copy you will miss a 
p'} literary treat. It is a spirited romance of 
town and country, and a faithful repro- 
duction of the drama, with the same unique 
characters, the same graphic scenes, but 
with the narrative more artistically rounded, and completed than was 
possible in the brief limits of a dramatic representation. This touch- 
ing story effectively demonstrates that it is possible to produce a novel 
which is at once wholesome and interesting in every part, without the 
introduction of an impure thought or suggestion. Head the following 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS: 

Mr. Neil Burgess has reATOtten his play, “The County Fair,” in story form. It 
rounds out a narrative which is comparatively but sketched in the play. It only needs 
the first sentence to set going the memory and imagination of those who have seen the 
latter and whet the appetite for the rest of this lively conception of a live dramatist.— 
Brooklyn Daily Eayle. 

As “The County Fair” threatens to remain in New York for a long time the general 
public out of town may be glad to learn that the playwright has put the piece into i)rint 
in the form of a story. A tale based upon a play may sometimes lack certain literary 
qualities, but it never is the sort of thing over which any one can fall asleep. For- 
tunately, “The County Fair” on the stage and in print is by the same author, so there 
can be no reason for fearing that the book misses any of the points of the di'ama which 
has been so successful —A’. Y. Herald. 

The idea of turning successful plays into novels seems to be getting popular. The 
latest book of this description is a story reproducing the action and incidents of Neil 
Burgess’ play, “The County Fair.” The tale, which is a romance based on scenes of 
home life and domestic joys and sorrows, follows closely the hnes of the drama in 
story and lAoi.— Chicago Daily News. 

Mr. Burgess’ amusing play, “The County Fair.” has been received wth such favor 
that he has worked it over and expanded it into a novel of more than 200 pages. It will 
be enjm’ed even by those who have never heard the play and stiU more by those who 
have.— Cincin7iati iHmes-Star. 

This touching story effectively demonstrates that it is possible to produce a novel 
which is at once wholesome and interesting in every part, without the introduction of 
an impure thought or suggestion.— ^ //lan Press. 

Street & Smith have issued “The County Fair.” This is a faithful reproduction of 
the drama of that name and is an affecting and vivid story of domestic life, joy and 
sorrow, and rural scenes.— Saw Francisco Call. 

This romance is written from the play of this name and is fuU of touching incidents. 
—Evansville Jout-nal. 

It is founded on the popular play of the same name, in which Neil Burgess, who is 
also the author of the stoiy, has achieved the dramatic success of the season.— jPaii 
River Herald. 


Tlxo Go’VLXX.'t’sr is No. 33 of “The Select Series,” for 

sale by all Newsdealers, or will be sent, on receipt of price, 25 cents, to any 
address, postpaid, by STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 26-31 Rose st., New York. 


BERTHA M. CLAY’S 

Copyright Novels, 

iisr 

TilE Select Series. 

rrio©, as Oexits ISSstclx. 


FULLY ILLUSTKATED. 


No. 22.-A HEAKT’S BITTERNESS. 

No. 28.-A HEART’S IDOL. 

No. 36.-THE GIPSY’S DAUGHTER. 
No. 37.-IN LOVES CRUCIBLE. 

No. 39.-MARJORIE DEANE. 

TLese novels are among' tLe best ever -writ- 
ten by BERTHA M. OLAY, and are enjoying 
an enormo-us sale. They are copyrighted and 
can be had only in THE SELECT SERIES. 


For sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or will be sent, post- 
paid, to any address in the United States or Canada, on receipt of 
price, 25 cents each, by 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 

P. 0. Box 2734. ^ ^31 Boso Street^ New York* 


THE SELECT SERIES. 

OF 

POPULAR AMERICAN COPYRIGHT STORIES. 

No. 47-SADIA THE ROSEBUD, by Julia Edwards 25 

No. 4«-A MOMENT OP MADNESS, by Charles J. Bellamy 25 

No. 45-WEAKER THAN A WOMAN, by Charlotte M. Brame 25 

No. 44— A TRUE ARISTOCRAT, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 25 

No. 43— TRIXY, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 25 

No. 42— A DEBT OP VENGEANCE, by Mrs. E. Burke Collins 25 

No. 41— BEAUTIPUL RIENZI, by Annie Ashmore 25 

No. 40— AT A GIRL’S MERCY, by Jean Kate Liidlum 25 

No. 39-MARJORlE DEANE, by Bertha M. Clay 25 

No. 38-BEAUTIPUL BUT POOR, by Julia Edwards 25 

No. 37— IN LOVE’S CRUCIBLE, by Bertha M. Clay 25 

No. 36— THE GIPSY’S DAUGHTER, by Bertha M. Clay 25 

No. 35-CECILE’S MARRIAGE, by Lucy Randall Comfort 25 

No. 34— THE LITTLE WIDOW, by Julia Edwards 25 

No. 33-THE COUNTY PAIR, by Neil Burgess 25 

No. 32— LADY BYHOPE’S LOVER, by Emma Garrison Jones 25 

No. 31— MARRIED POR GOLD, by Mrs. E. Burke Collins 25 

No. 30-PRETTIEST OP ALL, by Julia Edwards 25 

No. 29-THE HEIRESS OF EGREMONT, by Mrs. Harriet Lewis v]' 26 

No. 28— A HEART’S IDOL, by Bertha M. Clay ' 25 

No. 27— WINIFRED, by Mary Kyle Dallas ”*] 25 

No. 26— FONTELROY, by Francis A. Durivage 05 

No. 25— THE KING’S TALISMAN, by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr 26 

No. 24— THAT DOWDY, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 05 

No. 23-DENMAN THOMPSON’S OLD HOMESTEAD 05 

No. 22— A HEART’S BITTERMESS, by Bertha M. Clay 26 

No. 21— THE LOST BRIDE, by Clara Augusta 26 

No. 20— INGOMAR, by Nathan D. Uriier 25 

No. 19 — A LATE REPENTANCE, by Mrs. Mary A. Denison 26 

No. 18— ROSAMOND, by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 25 

No. 17— THE HOUSE OP SECRETS, by Mrs. H.arriet Lewis !'.!'.!!!! 25 

No. 16— SIBYL’S INFLUENCE, by 3Irs. Georgie Sheldon 25 

No. 15 — THE VIRGINIA HEIRESS, by May Agnes Fleming 26 

No. 14— FLORENCE FALKLAND, by Burke Brentford " 25 

No. 13 — THE BRIDE ELECT, by Annie Ashmore ' 25 

No. 12-THE PHANTOM WIFE, by Mrs. M. V. Victor I.”.!!!..!.!!.’.!..’ 25 

No. 11— BADLY MATCHED, by Mrs. Helen Corwin Pierce. 25 

No. 10— OCTAVIA’S PRIDE, by Charles T. Manners 25 

No. 9-THE WIDOW’S WAGER, by Rose Ashleigh 25 

No. 8-WILL SHE WIN? by Emma Garrison Jones ].’.’!!!!!! 25 

No. 7— GRATIA’S TRIALS, by Lucy Randall Comfort " 25 

No. 6 — A STORMY WEDDING, by Mrs. Mary E. Bryan 25 

No. 6 — BRUNETTE AND BLONDE, by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 25 

No. 4— BONNY JEAN, by Mrs. E. Burke Collins * 25 

No. 3— VELLA VERNELL ; or. An Amazing Marriage, by Mrs. Sumner Harden 25 

No. 2-A WEDDED WIDOW, by T. W. Hanshew 25 

No. 1 — THE SENATOR’S BRIDE, by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 25 

These popular hooks are large type editions, Avell printed, well hound and 
In handsome covers. For sale hy all Booksellers and Newsdealers • or ’sent. 
postage free, on receipt of price, 25 cents each, hy the publishers, ’ 

STREET & SMITH, 

• S6 to 3X Rose Street, New York, 


P. 0, Box 2734. 


Mrs. Georgie Sheldon’s 

Copyright Novels, 

IlST 

The Select Series. 


Px*loo, 25 Ooxrts £3sioli.. 


FULLY ILLUSTKATED. 


No. 16-SIBYL’S INFLUENCE. 

No. 24-THAT DOWDY. 

No. 43-TIlIXY. 

No. 44-A TRUE ARISTOCRAT. 

These novels, from the pen of our gifted au- 
thor, who writes exclusively for us, are among 
her most popular productions, and hold the front 
rank in first-class literature. 


For sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or will be sent, post- 
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price, 25 cents each, by 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 

P. O. Box 2784. 81 Bose Street, New York* 



An Entrancing Emotional Story, 


By BERTHA M. OLAY. 


No. i Of the Primrose Edition ot Copyright Noveis. 


Price, Cloth,'$l; Paper, 50 Cents. 


SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

Messrs. Street & Smith, New York, begin anew series of novels— “The 
Primrose Library”— with “Another Man’s Wife,” by Bertha M, Clay. The 
story has enough plot to keep one from falling asleep over it, ami it also in- 
dicates the stumbling-blocks and pitfalls which abound everywhere for 
young husbands and wives who think so much about having “a good time” 
that they have no time left in which to think about reputation and 
character. — N. T. Herald, Sept. 10. 

Street & Smith publish the American copyright novel, “Another Man’s 
Wife,” by Bertha M. Clay. It deals with cei'tain corrupting influences of 
fashionable society, and impressively warns of the dangers that spring 
from them. Its plot is strong and dramatic, and is elaborated with all of 
the qualities of style that have made the author so popular. It is the first 
issue of the new Primrose Series.— Boston Globe, Sept. 16. 

“Another Man’s Wife,” by Bertha M. Clay, Street & Smith’s Primrose 
Series, is a laudable effort toward the repression of the growing evil of 
matrimonial disloyalty. The book is handsomely bound, with a holiday 
look about it— Brooklyn Eagle, Sept. 15. 

Street & Smith of New York publish in cloth cover “Another Man’s 
Wife,” by Bertha M. Clay. The story is effective. It impressively depicts 
the results certain to attend the sins of deception. It teaches a lesson that 
wdll not be lost upon those thoughtless men and women who, only intent 
upon pleasure, little dream of the pitfall before them, and to which they are 
blind until exposure wrecks happiness . — Troy {N. Y.) Press. 

Street & Smith, New York, have brought out in book-form “Another 
Man’s Wife.” This is one of Bertha M. Clay’s most effective stories.— 
Cincinnati Enquirer. 

“Another Man’s Wife.” This is one of Bertha M. Clay’s most effective 
stories. It forcibly and impressibly portrays the evils certain to attend 
matrimonial deceit, clandestine interviews, and all the tricks and devices 
which imperil a wife’s honor. It has a novel and entrancingly interesting 
plot, and abounds in vivid and dramatic incidents. It is the first issue of 
Street & Smith’s Primrose Edition of Copyright Novels, and will not appear 
elsewhere.- Fi'eeman. 


Se/\ and Shore Series 


Stories of Strange Adventure Afloat and Ashore. 


Issned Moiitlily. PRICE, 25 CENTS EACH. Fully ffinstraM 


The above-named series is issued in clear, large type* unifonn in size with 
“The Select Series,” and will consist of the most thrilling and 
ingeniously constructed s+jories, by popular and experienced writers in the 
field of fiction. The fo^owing books are now ready ; 

No. 17— FEDORA., founded on the famous pltiy of the same name^ 
by Victorien Sardou. 

No. 16-SIBALLA, THE SORCERESS, by Prof. Wm. H. Peck. 
No. 15— THE HOLDEN EAGLE, by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

No. IL-THE FORTUNE-TELLER OF NEW ORLEANS, by 
Prof. Wm. Henry Peck. 

No. 13-THE IRISH 3IONTE CRISTO ABROAD, by Alex. 
Robertson, M. I). 

No. 12— HELD FOR RANSOM, by Lieutenant Murray. 

No. 11— THE IRISH MOM E CRISTO’S SEARCH, by Alex. 
Robertson, M. D. 

No. 10— LA TOSCA, from the celebrated play, by Victorien 
Sardou. 

No. 9-THE MAN IN BLUE, by Mary A. Denison. 

No. 8-BEN HAMED, by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

No. 7-CONFESSIONS OF LINSKA. 

No. 6— THE MASKED LADY, by Lieutenant Murray. 

No. 6— THEODORA, from the celebrated play, by Victorien 
Sardou. 

No. 4-THE LOCKSMITH OF LYONS, by Prof. Wm. 
Henry Peck. 

No. 3-THE BROWN PRINCESS, by Mrs. M. V. Victor. 

No. 2— THE SILVER SHIP, by Lewis Leon. 

No. 1-AN IRISH MONTE CRISTO. 


For sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or will be sent, postagh 
FREE, to any address in the United States or Canada, on receipt of pricey 
£5 cents, by the publishers, 

STREET & SMITH, 

P. 0. BOX 2734. 25-31 ROSE STREET, NEW YORK. 


THE SEA A1 ME SERIES 


OF 


POPULAR AMERICAN GOPYRICHT NOVELS, 

BY NOTABLE AUTHORS. 


3>Jo. 4. 



Of MS; 


OR, 


THE WEAVER’S WAR. 


By PROFESSOR WM. HENRY PECK, 


AUTHOR OF 


“Marlin Mardnke,” “£15,000 Reward,” “Siballa, 
the Sorceress,” etc. 


From the very opening paragraph this powerful and Intensely exciting 
romance enchains the attention and keeps curiosity constantly active. The 
sceue opens in the manufacturing center of Lyons, during a troublesome 
period in her history, when the laboring classes strove to maintain their 
rights against the nobility. The hero, whom fate has made an humble 
workman, finds opportunity for the display of those self-asserting qualities, 
which always force their possessor to the front in every contest. While 
most of the action is thrilling and dramatic, a captivating love episode is 
adroitly interwoven with the main thread of the romance. The mystery 
appertaining to the early life of the Locksmith, the appalling accusation 
which makes him the victim of unseen foes, his fortitude in the most trying 
positions, and his final vindication and reward, are forcibly and sympatheti- 
cally set forth in this well constructed story. 


RRICE, SS CENTS 


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BEN HAMED; 

OR, 

THE CHILDEEN OF FATE. 

By STLYANUS COBB, Jr. 


Street& Smith’s Sea and Shore Series, No. 8. 

as Ooixts- 


WHAT THE PBESS SAY OF IT. 


Oriental romance by Sylvanus Cobb, Y-lilcb recalls 
stories of tjie “Arabian Nights,” without tlieir supernatural 
eflects. Indeed, our old friend Haroun Al Rascbid figures prominently in 
this work, and is closely identified with the hero and heroine-the devoted 
Assad and the fair Morgiana. It is a romance of xmre love, with an in- 
genious and cleverly sustained plot.— Gi-anrf liapids Democrat, Aug. 8. 

“Ben Hamed” is the title of an Oriental romance not Mulike the stories of 
the “Arabian Nights.” It is a romance of pure love. A number of strong 
characters combine with the hero and heroine in the solution of an ingenious 
y\ot.—H.arrishurg Patriot, July 28. 


Street & Smith of New York have published “Ben Hamed; or, The Chil- 
dren of Fate,” by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr., which is No. 8 of the Sea and Siioue 
Series. This book is an Oriental romance, which recalls the “Arabian 
Nights,” without tlieir suxiernatural eftects. The plot is ingenious and well 
sustained, and brings out a romance of xmre love m a charming manner.— 
'-San Francisco Moming Call, July 21. 


“Ben Hamed” is an Oriental romance by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr., published in 
taper by Street & Smith, New York city. It is clever in the way that all of 
Jobb’s stories are cle^ev.— Indianapolis News, July 20. 


“Ben Hamed is a capital story, progressive in action, interesting from 
the opening line, and with a charming love romance, on w'hich are strung 
many remarkable incidents. — Acton Star, July 21. 

A capital story of Eastern life, which must have been suggested by a 
perusal of the “Arabian Nights,” is Sylvanus Cobb’s Oriental narrative of 
“Ben Hamed; or. The Children of Fate.” It is admirablj' told, full of in- 
terest, and cannot fail to charm all who begin its perusal. — J/owf ana 
Sun, Sept. 22. 

Street & Smith, of the New York Weekly, have published “Ben 
Hamed; or. The Children of Fate,” by Sylvanus Cobb. Jr. This is an 
Oriental romance, accentuated by a very strong and Ingenious plot.— 
Paul Pioneer Press, July 21. 

Street & Smith, New York, publish in paper covers “Ben Hamed,” an 
Oriental romance, by Sylvanus Cobb, which recalls the delightful stories of 
the “Arabian Nights,”, without their suxiernatural effects.” — Cincinnati 
Enquirer, 

“Ben Hamed,” an Oriental romance, by Sylvanus Cobb, is published by 
Street & Smith, New York. It is one of Cobb’s characteristic romances, 
Haroun Al Raschid being a prominmit figure. There is nothing strained or 
unnatural in “Ben Hamed,” it recalling the stories of the “Arabian Nlgbte,” 
tritlitfut tlieir suxieimtural e>fiQCXA,-~-MinntapoLis July 21$ 


WOMEN’S SECRETS 


The public are at last permitted to take a peep into the 
wonderful and mysterious art of 


“HOW TO BE BEAUTIFUL.” 


We will soon become a nation of Beauty. Read how, in the table of 


THE VALUE OF PERSONAL BEAUTY.— Tills chapter relates to the heauty 
in “Genius,” “Strength,” “Religion,” “Poetry,” and “Chivalry.” 

THE HISTORY OF BEAUTY.— Mode of acquiring it by the people of different 
nations. What people are the most beautiful 1 

VARIOUS STANDARDS OF BEAUTY.— Tastes of civilized and uncivilized 
people. The French definition of beauty. 

THE BEST STANDARD OF BEAUTY.— Defines the Head, Hair, Eyes, Cheeks, 
Ears, Nose, Mouth, Bosom, Limbs, and in fact every part of the human form. 

HOW TO RAISE BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN.— To newly married people, and 
those who contemplate entering the conjugal state, this chapter alone is 
well worth the price of the book. 

HOW TO BE BEAUTIFUL.— This chapter is full of information, as it not only 
tells how to beautify every part of the form and features, but gives recipes 
and cures for all the ailments which tend to mar or blemish. 

BEAUTY SLEEP.— To be beautiful it is not necessaiy to be like the bird that 
seeks its nest at sunset and goes forth again at sunrise. You will here find 
the required time to be spent in bed, the positions most conducive to health, 
facts regarding ventilation, bed-clothes, adornments, and other useful hints. 

BEAUTY FOOD.— Instructs liow, when, and where to eat, and also treats of 
Digestion, Complexion, Foods which color the skin, etc. 

HOW TO BE FAT.— Tlie infoi*mation imparted in this chapter will be a boon to 
thin, delicate women, as it tells what to eat and what to avoid, also what to 
drink and how to dress when plumpness is desirable. 

HOW TO BE LEAN.— If corpulent women will carefully follow the instructions 
herein, they will be happy and enjoy life. 

BEAUTY BATHING AND EXERC18E. — This chapter Is intended for every 
one to read and profit by. There is no truer saying than “Cleanliness is next 
to Godliness.” 


EFFECTS OF MENTAL EMOTIONS ON BEAUTY. — After you read this, we 
feel safe in saying that you will not give way to anger, surprise, fright, grief, 
vexation, etc., but will ^at all times strive to be cheerful and make the best 
of life. 


HOW BEAUTY IS DESTROYED. — Tlie women are warned in this chapter 
against quack doctors and their nostrums, the dangers of overdosing, and 
irregular habits. 

HOWTO REMAIN BEAUTIFUL.— It is just as easy for those that are beauti- 
ful to remain so as to allow themselves to fade away like a fiower which 
only blooms for a season, 

HOW TO ACQUIRE GRACE AND STYLE.— Without grace and style beauty 
18 lost. They are as essential as a beautiful face. To walk ungracefully or 

awkwardly is not only vulgar but detrimental to the health. 

THE LANGUAGE OF BEAUTY.— This chapter will enable you to read a per- 
his or her character, without tlie use of a plirenological cliari, 

CORSETS.^ When and what kind should be worn. How they were originated- 
and by whom. o 

CYCLING. — The latest craze for ladies is fully described in this chapter. 


WOlllEN’S SECRETS; op, How to be BeautM 

THE BEST SELLING BOOK OF THE DAY. 

Just Out. I*rice S5 Cents. 

For Sale by all ^ewsdealeirs. 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 

31 Xiose Street* 




The Secret Service Series 


P. 


Comprises the Best Pe tectivK, Stories by the Best Authors. 

Issued Monthly. PRICE 25 CENTS EACH. PuUy lUnstratei. 

This series is enjoying a larger sale than any similar series ever 
published. None but American Authors are represented on our list, and 
the Books are all Copyrighted, and can be had only in the SECRET 
SERVICE SERIES. Bound in Handsome Lithograph Covers. 

LATEST ISSUES: 

No. 29— THE POKER KINO, by Marline Manly. 

No. 28-BOB YOUNGER’S FATE, by Edwin S. Deane. 

No. 27-THE REVENUE DETECTIVE, by PoHce Captain 
Janies. 

No. 26-UNDER HIS THUMB, by Donald J. McKenzie. 

No. 25-THE NAVAL DETECTIVE’S CHASE, by Ned Buntline 
No. 24:-THE PRAIRIE DETECTIVE, by Leander 
Richardson. 

No. 23-A MYSTERIOUS CASE, by K. F. HiU. 

No. 22-THE SOCIETY DETECTIVE, by Oscar Maitland. 

No. 21-THE AMERICAN MARQUIS, by Nick Carter. 

No. 20-THE MYSTERY OF A MADSTONE, by K. F. Hill. 

No. 19-THE SWORDSMAN OF WARSAW, by Tony Pastor. 
No. 18-A WALL STREET HAUL, by Nick Carter. 

No. 17 -THE OLD DETECTIVE’S PUPIL, by Nick Carter. 
No. 16-THE MOUNTAINEER DETECTIVE, by Clayton W. 
Cobb. 

No. 15-TOM AND JERRY, by Tony Pastor. 

No. II-THE DETECTIVE’S CLEW, by ^^Old Hutch.’> 

No. 13-DARKE DARRELL, by Frank H. Stauffer. 

No. 12— THE DOG DETECTIVE, by Lieutenant Murray. 

No. 11— THE MALTESE CROSS, by Eugene T. Sawyer. 

No. 10-THE POST-OFFICE DETECTIVE, by Geo. W. Goode. 

No. 9— OLD MORTALITY, by Young Baxter. 

No. 8— LITTLE LIGHTNING, by Police Captain James. 

No. 7— THE CHOSEN MAN, by Judson R. Taylor. 

No. 6— OLD STONEWALL, by Judson R. Taylor. 

No. 6— THE MASKED DETECTIVE, by Judson R. Taylor. 

No. 4-THE TWIN DETECTIVES, by K. F. HiU. 

No. 3-VAN, THE GOVERNMENT DETECTIVE, by ^^OW 
;:5j3ith.” 

fo. 2-BRUCE ANGELO, by ^^Old Sleuth.’’ 

No. 1-BRANT ADAMS, by ^^Oid Sleuth.” 


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BY POPULAB AUTHOBS. 


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xaro. 8 . 

^XL Entrancing Love Story. 


VELLA VERNELL; 

OR, 

AN AMAZING MARRIAGE. 


By Mrs. SUMNER HAYDEN, 

Author of “ Little Goldie,” etc. 


In originality of conception, and artistic skill in the construc- 
tion and development of plot, the story of “VelijA Vernell” will 
compare favorably with the most meritorious works of fiction. 
The language is graceful and forcible ; the style is earnest and 
captivating ; the incidents are novel and dramatic — a series of 
animated pictures, so very life-like that the reader becomes 
Impressed with their reality ; the characters are capitally drawn, 
and speak and act like sentient beings ; while the plot is fresh 
and ingenious, and evolved with the tact of a master-hand. 


PRICE, TWENTY-FIVE CENTS. 


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postage free^ to any address, on receipt of price, by the pub- 
lishers, 

STREET <Sc 

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N"o. 11. 

AN ENTRANCma SENSATIONAL STORY. 

BADLY MATCHED; 

OB, 

WOMAN AGAINST WOMAN. 

By HELEN CORWIN PIERCE, 

Author of “The Curse of Everleigrh,” “Married in Jest,^* eta 

Woman^s honor and woman^s deception are in this story 
powerfully contrasted. Between vice and virtue there is a 
prolonged contest — one woman, actuated solely by honor- 
able motives, competing with an unprincipled female strate- 
gist, whose heart is steeled against every ennobling impulse. 
This battle of life is continued with varying changes, until 
the soul-absorbing mystery is satisfactorily elucidated. 

PRICE, TWENTY-FIVE CENTS. 

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cover, and for sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers; or 
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No, lO. 

OCTAVIA’S PRIDE; 

OB, 

THE MISSING WITNESS. 

By CHARLES T. MAHNERS, 

Author of “The Lord of Lyle,” “The Flaw in the Diamond,” etc. 

An animated and vigorous story, graceful in diction, pro- 
gressive in action, and devoid of verbose descriptions. 
Every chapter is full of spirited and novel incidents, and 
every paragraph is essential to the development of the well- 
constructed plot. 

PRICE, T?WENTY-FIVE CENTS. 

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THE ONLY 

Pullman Perfected Safety 


WITH DINING- CAR 


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w OMEN’S SECRETS 


The public are at last permitted to take a peep into the 
wonderful and mysterious art of 


“HOW TO BE BEAUTIFUL.” 


We will soon become a nation of Beauty. Bead how, in the table of 


CONTENTS: 


VALUE OF PERSONAL BEAUTY.— This chapter relates to the beauty 
iu “Genius.” “Strength,” “Reli^Mon ” “Poetry,” and “Chivalry.” 

THjl. HISTORY OF BEAUTY.— Mode of acciuiriug it by the people of different 
nations. What people are the most beautiful? 

VARIOUS STANDARDS OF BEAUTY.— Tastes of civilized and uncivilized 
people. The French definition of beauty ^ ^ 

THE BEST STANDARD OF BEAUTY.- Defines the Head, Hair, Eyes, Cheeks, 
Ears, Nose, Mouth. Bosom, Liinlis, and in fact every part of the human form. 

HOW TO RAISE BEAUTIFUL Ci 1 1 LDREN.— To newly married people, and 
tliose who contemplate entering the C'lnjugal state, this chapter alone is 
well worth the price of the book. ^ , 

HOW TO BE BEAUTIFUL.— Tills chaptei s full of information, as it not only 
tells how' to beautify every part of tlie form and features, but gives recipes 
and cures for all the ailments wdiich tend to mar or blemish. 

BEAUTY SLEEP.— To be beautiful it is not uecessaiy to be like the bird Uiat 
seeks its nest at sunset and goes forth again at sunrise. You will here find 
tlie required time to be spent iu bed, the positions most conducive to health, 
facts regarding ventilation, bed-clothes, adornments, and other useful hints. 

BEAUTY FOOD.—Instructs how, when, and where to eat, and also treats of 
Digestion, Complexion, Foods which color tip skin, etc. 

HOW TO BE FAT. — The information imparted in this chapter will be a boon to 
thin, delicate w'omen, as it tells what to eat and what to avoid, also what to 
drink and how to dress wMien plumpness is desirable. 

HOW TO BE LEAN. — If corjuilent women will carefully follow the instructions 
herein, tliey wdll be liappy and enjoy life. 

BEAUTY HAI'HING AND EX ERC isE.- This chapter is intended for every 
07ie to read and profit by. There is no truer saying than “Cleanliness is next 


to (iodliness.” ^ , 

EFFECTS OF MENTAL EMOTIONS ON BEAUTY.— After you read tliis, we 
feel safe in 8a3'ing tliat you will not give w^ay to anger, surprise, fright, grief, 
vexation, etc., but w'ill at all times strive to be cheerful and make the best 
of life. ^ ^ . 

now BEAUTY IS DESTROYED —The women are warned in this chapter 
against quack doctors and their nostrums, the dangers of overdosing, and 
irregular habits. ^ ^ ^ 

HOW TO REMAIN BEAUTTFUL.—Tt is just as easy for those that are beauti- 
ful to remain so as to allow themselves to fade away like a flower which 
only blooms for a season. ^ i * 

HOW TO ACQUIRE GRACE AND STYLE.— Without grace pd style beauty 
is lost They are as essential as a beautiful face. To walk ungracefully or 
awkwardly is not onlv vulgar but detrimental to the health. 

THE LANGUAGE OF B>. AUTY.— This chapter will enable yon to read a per- 
son and learn his or her character, without tlie use >f a phrenological chart. 
CORSETS.- When and what kind should be worn. Hew they were originated. 


aiidbywliom. 

CYCLING.— The latest craze for ladies is fully 


described in this chapter. 


mOMEN’S SECRETS ; op, How to be BeauliM 

THE BEST SELLING BOOK OF THE DAY. 


-Tiist Out. P*rice QS Cents. 

For Sale by all Newsdealers. 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 

ai ILose Street. 




Zeic Ax 


film Mi l "fm 


/ FIGHTING FOR IT. 

Here is a jreod-iiaturert scramble for a cake of Pears’ Soap, -wMcb only 
Illustrates bow ne<*essary it becomes to all people wlio have once tried it 
And discovered ite merits. Some who ask for it have to fisrht for it in a 
'more serious way, and that too in drug stores where all sorts of vile and 
/inferior soaps are urged upon them as substitutes. Buttlieycau always 
get the genuine Pears’ Boap, if they will be as {>er6i8tent as are those urchins. 







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